


CHOOSE ME

by internetname



Series: SPEAK ME [3]
Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-04
Updated: 2016-09-04
Packaged: 2018-08-13 00:45:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 27,741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7955503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/internetname/pseuds/internetname
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spike and Buffy deal with their new reality while facing a new Big Bad.</p>
            </blockquote>





	CHOOSE ME

**Author's Note:**

> I don't usually post WIPs, but the bloody thing has gotten to 100 pages! I could really use some feedback fuel. (Shameless. I am shameless.)

“You’re still dropping your right shoulder.”

“He’s right, pet. You’re telegraphing every time you plan to land a hard one with your right.”

Buffy scowled, dancing back. “I need to draw a little more—”

“Bollocks. The power isn’t coming from your muscles. It’s from your heart, your soul, your bit of tamed demon dust.” His left foot came at her chin like a missile, and she snapped back out of its way.

“I’m making with the power here. Sorry if my brain says ‘more power,’ and my body responds.”

“Your body is shouting, ‘Hey, I’m going for the big power,’ to the thing you’re trying to kill, kitten, which totally defeats the purpose.”

“The power should flow from you,” Giles said. “Calling it up requires nothing more than your will.”

Spike put his hands up, stepping back. She dropped her arms and waited.

“OK,” the vampire said. “It’s like, when you want to scream at someone, right? You take a deep breath because screaming needs more air. But you’re not screaming, you’re—you’re changing the pitch.”

“The pitch.”

“Right, like the key. Going from A major to C minor, you know. It’s not more power; it’s slayer power. You don’t need more breath; you need to change the pitch.”

She just stared at him. Giles thought about trying another metaphor, but then kept quiet.

“Think about it, Slayer.” Spike suddenly went into game face. “I have vampire strength whether I go with the wrinklies or not, but letting the demon go, that lets him know it’s OK not to pull back.” He shook his head and looked human again. “You wanna let loose with the slayer power, all you have to do is think it. It doesn’t need anything more than that thought, that ‘all clear’ from you that it’s time to let go.”

Buffy frowned, and Giles knew that was her deep thought face. Because they were in a dream, he had a bottle of water in his hand, and he took a drink. Strange the way one could get thirsty in a dream. He wondered if he could get a scotch here sometime. His feet were tired too, but not that bad. They’d been worse at the graveyard tonight. Who knew even Phoenix cemeteries could be full of the undead? Perhaps it had something to do with not being on the Council’s regular patrol schedule.

She nodded, and then assumed a stance. Spike matched her, and they were sparring again, two warriors of such power. He almost wished Andrew were there with his camera. Some of the new slayers really had no idea what their abilities could lead to.

And then Buffy slammed her right hand into Spike’s chest, rocketing him back against the wall of the training room behind the Magic Box to crumple in a heap.

The heap looked up and grinned.

“That’s more like it!”

Buffy laughed and held out her hand, but before the vampire could take it, she popped out. Spike frowned at the spot where she had been, then looked over as Giles started to waver.

“Back with you soon,” the Watcher managed to get out.

Then Spike was back in the nothing room.

“Bollocks,” he muttered, taking out a smoke and lighting up. Always irritating, when she left that way. No goodbye, and more important no way to know if whatever had woken her up so suddenly were just an alarm clock or some nasty on the attack.

With a growl, he paced the length of the room and back. Damned infuriating was what it was. He knew it wasn’t his place anymore, fighting by her side. He’d given that all up when he closed the Hellmouth. But to know she was out there without him to watch her back…

He snorted. _Yeah, she’s all alone with a platoon of new slayers, Faith, the Scoobies, and whatever new white hat’s thrown in with the lot. What more do you think you could do, anyway?_

He flicked the butt away. Smothering the thought that he’d do whatever he could and that was kind of the point, he bounced a couple of times to make sure everything was good to go, and stepped forward.

A corridor lined with empty picture frames, the smell of human blood and some rotting carnivorous demon, fat black flies in the air that buzzed like mosquitoes.

No sign of Buffy, but there was a noise behind him that had him spinning around, fists raised.

“If a cheese falls in the forest,” a strange bald man with glasses told him as he held up a platter of Kraft slices, “is it still delicious?”

“What the bleedin’—”

“Spike!” Buffy called, but even as he turned to her voice he only saw the riot-damaged high school and zombie-like students. That tosspot Wood was there holding a board with nails pounded into one end. With a roar of frustration, the vampire swung at him, nearly sending himself to the floor when his punch just sailed through the principal’s image. Staggering to keep his feet, Spike completed the turn started by the arc of his punch to see Wood staring at him without any sort of expression, like one of Madame Trousseau’s bloody waxworks.

“Spike’s gone,” Wood said, only his mouth moving.

“Spike!” Buffy’s voice sounded anguished, but he couldn’t see her through the dark smoke. And then suddenly he could see her, though it was only her reflection in a bathroom mirror as she looked down at the little white scale she was standing on.

She scowled at whatever the scale was saying and whined, “Well, that’s not right.”

Something large with wings struck her in the blink of an eye, and then was gone. And he was standing in the white tiled bathroom Spike had never wanted to see again, instead of being buried with the bloody Hellmouth where it belonged. Where he belonged.

“You forgot,” Xander said, smiling and holding out Buffy’s tennis shoes.

And she was there, but not in the bathroom. She shook her head at the boy. “That’s not my brand.”

“Sorry,” Clem said, standing in a puddle of writhing snakes and handing her a vicious-looking whip. “It was all they had left.”

“No,” she said, brandishing a long sword. “I have this.”

With a spin, the Slayer brought the sword down and through Clem’s neck.

“Slayer!” Spike screamed, recoiling when her green eyes turned to him with hatred.

“I’m sorry,” she said, and now she was covered in fresh, dripping blood. “I’m on the clock.”

And then she was gone.

For an instant, maybe, he was in the nothing room, or maybe he just blinked. He didn’t care. Now he was lying next to Buffy in her soft, white bed in her house on Revello Drive as she shot up, crying his name.

He grabbed her, leaning the two of them together, hating the cold chill of sweat on her skin, loving that she relaxed just a little as his arms went around her.

“I’m here, baby. It’s me. Spike has you. You’re OK. Everything is going to be all right.”

He thought she might cry, but instead she buried her face in his neck. (He suppressed a shot of arousal with an inward sneer even as he recognized they were both completely naked except for the rings around his ringers and the little loops through her earlobes.) She shuddered, obviously trying to calm her breathing.

“I have you,” he murmured. “It was, well, it was a dream, but it was a bad one, and now—”

“Slayer’s dream,” she rasped, still getting her breathing under control.

“What?”

She held him tighter, but less desperately, and he felt her heartbeat start to even out.

“Slayers,” she said. “We get dreams. That was one of them.”

“Prophetic, you mean? Like Dru.” Spike’s brain shrieked at him. “I mean, not like Dru, obviously. I mean—”

“It’s OK, Spike.” She was definitely calming down now, and he heard a little amusement in her voice. “Like Drusilla, but not like. I understand.”

“Better than I do, I bet.”

She actually laughed a little then, and then looked up and kissed him softly. God, everything was all right when his Slayer was kissing him. She ended it for a moment, leaning her forehead against his.

He chuckled. “Well, at least I understand the Cheese Man reference now.”

“You saw him?”

He nodded, kissing her hair a little too eagerly. He needed to calm down himself.

“You know what he means, then?”

“Not a clue, luv.”

She smiled and shivered and sort of sank down into him, and it was just bliss, being able to be there for her even if he couldn’t feel more off balance hanging upside down over a vat of holy water. He made himself not ask what was going on, but, being who she was, she knew she had to explain it.

“I just get these dreams that mean things.”

It did seem a little like Dru’s visions. No wonder his ex-princess never made any sense when she was dancing around and babbling about pixies.

“Any idea what this dream was trying to tell you?”

She leaned back, and he hated the look of fear in her eyes. He snarled, shooting glances around her little room. Whatever it was, dream-vamp or not, he’d rip out its throat and eat its guts before he let it hurt her.

“Take it easy, Fangboy,” she said with a small smile and patted his chest, which appreciated it. “Sometimes the dreams are really helpful, even if they’re not all that fun.”

“Fun? Felt like the soddin’ _Twilight Zone_.”

“Majorly.” She eased down further into his embrace before turning them on the mattress to cover him like a blanket.

“Slayer?”

She hummed, snuggling closer. “I always wake up from these things freaked out of my mind. Never had someone there before, let alone someone I love.”

He tried to speak, honestly.

“It’s like, I’m usually thrown into hot water and then cold, back and forth, until I escape. And in the morning, after a shower and getting dressed and all that, I can go to Giles and tell him what I saw.” She kissed his neck, his collar bone, his jaw. “And now instead, you’re here. And it’s not burning or frozen, but warm and safe. And my dream is as clear as ever, but the painful bits are just, I dunno. It’s never been this easy after one of those before.”

As much of a blanket as she already was, he felt her relax even further. He held her in place, warm himself down to every blood vessel, every greedy vein and artery.

“I love you, Buffy,” he said, not really meaning to speak. “It means everything to be here for you.”

“With me,” she mumbled.

“As long as you’re in the mix, I don’t care about prepositions.”

“Hmm, Mr. Makin’ with the Big Words.”

He laughed, thinking of when he’d been just William Pratt, not William/Spike/William the Bloody/Scourge of Europe/whatever he wanted to be now. If he’d had love like this then—

_Huh. William Pratt couldn’t have had love like this, though, could he? Probably kiss the ground she walked on and then lock himself in a closet and have a wank with his eyes closed._

Before he could get rid of the thought, she was arching back up a bit to look into his eyes, and he fought one of his hardest battles yet to put nothing else but all of his love into his eyes for her to see.

“I’ve never told anyone how much I hate Slayer dreams,” she whispered. “But then, I could always tell you the horrible things I can’t tell anyone else.”

“Are Slayer dreams horrible things?”

She nodded. “They might be useful, but they tear at me. I wake up, and I feel less like Buffy and more like this thing that other things, things I can’t see, make me become. I feel like…” She shrugged, frowning.

“The universe’s bitch?”

She laughed, muscles relaxing again, as she kissed his nose, his eyelids, his chin, all the while making his toes curl.

“Yeah. Pretty much. I love you,” she said, breathing the words into his skin.

“Buffy. Oh, God.”

“You want me?”

“Always. Whenever. Wherever…long as it’s you and—”

She shushed him, eyes looking at him like they made him something greater than he would ever be. His whole body swelled, like one of those toads after a bird had plucked out its liver.

_Yeah, still not meant to be a poet._

“It’s now,” she said, trying to turn again then in the bed again, drawing him over her. “It’s here.”

“You sure you want me—”

“On me,” she said. “Inside me.”

He just sort of made a noise then that he would never be able to explain, tumbling over in the bed—

And landing on the floor, Buffy making a startled noise beneath him.

“This is a dream bed!” he objected, looking around in accusation. “It’s not bloody supposed to—”

“Spike.” She waited until he looked down at her, and then smiled and opened up further, letting his hips settle between her thighs. “We’re good.”

He nodded, collecting himself, and then leaned down to kiss her. Her hips rose up, and he smiled against her mouth, getting ready to take a trip downtown, when she pushed him just slightly away.

“Not now.”

“Buffy.”

“In. Me.” She said it like an incantation, a demand from on high, opening her legs out until she brought them up to wrap around his body.

What could he do then but push forward into the molten sweetness of her, losing himself in what she was? God knew, if she wanted him to he’d walk into fire for her, so was he supposed to resist when she wanted his cock in the place it most wanted to be in the vast, wide world? She was fire against him, but unlike flame she soothed. Her body was love and light and heat and home, a place where both demon and soul reveled, a place where he was at peace with every part of himself, even while he felt himself reach up toward a sexual climax that seemed to re-stamp himself on his own atoms, making him new, making him hers. If he could wish for it, there would be nothing of him but something of hers.

Which seemed a little wrong, so he ignored it. Easy enough to do.

It was a long lovely while of just being there before she sighed.

“Back to the real world, luv?”

“One more minute,” she muttered, and he damn near decomposed as her arms tightened, holding her outline against every line of his.

“God, I love you. I love every blessed inch of you.”

“I love you too. I—”

“Love your skin, your light, your hair.”

“Shut up.”

He frowned at her as she leaned up, looking again into his eyes with love but a trace of annoyance.

“How am I supposed to—” she started.

She popped out. Gone. He was lying on his stomach in the nothing room, leather jacket spread out like wings.

He had a fag first—well, after he was standing on his own two bloody feet again. There’d been no sense of danger this time, just her waking up because the real world called. She was probably telling the Watcher about her Slayer dream, which was all to the good, right? Rupert would probably know all sorts of things about what that little parfait of horrors had been all about.

He flicked away the last of his cigarette, bounced a bit, and then—and then there was a sort of pause. Nothing was holding him back, but he was held back, which made no sense.

_This is it. She’s decided to stop dreaming of me. Which means, what?_

And then he was in a public library. It looked enough like a sprawling desert complex that he knew he was still in the American Southwest. Everything was earth tones and angles designed to make the most of the light, all the while kind of looking washed out and arid, like the people there couldn’t even remember what it felt like to have a bit of moisture in the air.

He stood beside a long, shiny table of polished ash, with bookshelves all around and Buffy (the real Buffy, he could tell, so the pause thing meant nothing) sitting at the head. She smiled at him and mouthed “Sorry about that” as Giles, Willow, Dawn, and Xander popped in like a bad special effect.

“All right. Can I just be the first to say that isn’t working for me?” the boy said.

Spike was about to ask him if he meant having a dream meeting when Willow said, “It’s not like a fortune cookie, Xander.” So he kept his mouth shut. He couldn’t help but notice he was doing that a lot more lately. Was it being a dream? Was it the soul? Or did it start when everything else did, when he fell in love with her?

No, he realized, somewhat unpleasantly. It started when he had become a dream, a creature who had to think of things before they happened. It felt like his body had instincts still, but he didn’t have a body. His brain now had to decide things before the rest of him, which was—what? Something he’d have to think about, just like everything else.

“If even the demon population of Phoenix is aware of the disquiet,” Giles was saying, “it’s most unsurprising that we are getting portents from all corners.”

On the table was one’s of Red’s locating maps. She hadn’t done a spell on it yet, though. Or at least, nothing was glowing.

Spike took a seat and had a smoke. The Scoobies had been worried for several days now about the uptick in demon activity, not just in Phoenix, but all over. Despite Buffy’s hopes that some sort of show of force with the new slayers would give a sense of the new order without freaking everyone out, it was clear the demon population of the world wasn’t buying it. The bogeyman of every beastie’s dreams was suddenly fifty strong (and counting, though the trickle was finally choking off), and everything not completely human was sharpening its claws, teeth, and whatever else might come in handy.

Spike rolled his eyes as the others went over the latest news of growing demon unrest. The problem no one at the table seemed to want to deal with—

“What?” Giles said, looking at him.

Suddenly the center of attention, Spike looked around the table and at the many pairs of eyes now focused on him.

“Just listening, Watcher.”

“No, you’re displaying that attitude you tend to adopt whenever you feel the rest of us are being foolish or blind.”

He looked around in protest, but saw nothing even in Buffy’s eyes to help him. With a sigh, he ground out his smoke on the table, admiring the burn mark it made.

“The bloody elephant in the room is that this isn’t something you can just negotiate, like, if you make it nice enough in the demon apocalypse all the horrors of the night will calm down again.”

He looked around again, seeing various degrees of confusion masking a desire not to understand what he was saying. Except Buffy, of course. She was getting it loud and clear.

“One slayer in all the world, and she alone didn’t just confront the forces of darkness, she kept them at bay. I know you all look back and just see the how close you’ve come to witnessing the end of the human world, but look at it from the demon perspective. Time and again they’ve tried to get the upper hand, even for just a little while, and each and every time they’ve been defeated.”

He shrugged. “Which, to all of us here, is a good thing. But most of them don’t feel the same way. And now, out of the blue, there’s not just one or even two slayers, there’s dozens. They know, and you know it too, that this is the end of the line for everything they care about. You’re going to make this world completely human when you’re done, and what does that leave for them?” He snorted. “Or for you.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, Watcher, that there won’t be a lot left for slayers to do once they’ve killed everything without pure human DNA. Will the world keep making them when there’s nothing to slay? Or will all those slayers’ need to be queen bitch mean they’ll turn on each other? Little Buffys and Faiths running around until…what?”

“You said we changed the world for the better!” said obviously upset Willow.

He shrugged. “You did, but there’ll still be consequences. You know that.”

“I don’t want to kill all the demons,” Buffy said quietly.

Everyone looked at her, and she met their gazes head-on.

“I don’t want to kill Clem or those like him who’re just trying to get along.”

“Some demons are beneficial,” Willow said. “They can help with growing things and keeping bad things from happening. Some help with the weather and the turn of the seasons. Killing all the demons would be as lame an idea as doing away with magic altogether.”

“I was wrong,” Buffy said next. “That place, the one Riley went to, those vampires I killed from there. People choose to go to places like that. Maybe it’s a bad choice, but those vampires had opted not to kill, for whatever reasons. It was like—like finding out my boyfriend was shooting heroine and burning down a drug house. It felt good, and maybe it got rid of a few lowlifes, but it—”

“It wasn’t worth your time, luv,” Spike said.

“It wasn’t worth my judgment,” she said, her small voice at odds with the weight of her words and its obvious effect on her shoulders.

“So what are we going to say to all the demons out there?” Xander asked. “Meet a slayer’s approval with a history of non-violence and you can live?”

“Would that really be so bad?” Dawn asked. “Slayers know things.”

“We kill demons when they attack. We don’t usually kill things because they did something we don’t like,” Xander said. “Do we just go around slaughtering demons because they’re not like us? Are we no better than the Initiative?”

Ducking his head slightly from the others’ gazes, he shrugged. “Even people recognize the need to kill other people in self-defense. What we’re talking about here is an offensive force. Buffy and Faith, they stepped in when the violence was already going on. They killed to save people. What Spike’s describing is more like systematic genocide.”

“It’s not a slayer’s job to rid the world of everything that’s not human,” Buffy said, sounding quite sure now.

Giles nodded, frowning. “The problem is how we can get that across to the demon world before they all come for us before we can make it clear—”

“No, the bloody problem you lot don’t want to understand is that nothing you could say to them is going to convince them you’re out for anything but demon blood. None of them would trust you if you made an oath with the blood of your first born!”

“So it’s probably true,” Buffy said. “They’re probably what called this up.”

“Sorry, just a dream vampire here. Called what up?”

“We only got news of it a few hours ago,” Xander said, which almost sounded like he was trying to make Spike feel better for being out of the loop. Boy was slipping.

“We’ve gotten signs, several reports of omens,” Dawn said, too young for the words she was saying, poor bit. “It looks like it’s more than a demon. It looks like we’re facing a god.”

“Again?”

“Quite.” Giles looked down at the books around him. “From what little we know at this point, the power involved is beyond the level of any demon or group of demons we know of, and we have no idea who’s behind it or what they might want.”

Buffy was frowning as she licked a perfectly pink pair of lips. He wanted to kiss away the stress on her forehead. Would the world never let her have a week off? “It seems this human dimension has been used to jail more than one all-powerful whatever, so we have lots of suspects.”

“Yes.” Giles leafed through a tome while Spike put another fag in his mouth and flicked open his lighter. “The long-standing balance of power in our world the line of slayers has provided has attracted a multitude of would-be jailers who see this dimension as relatively stable. The often impending chaos on our world is nothing compared to—”

“Just how many hell gods and super-horrors are we talking about here?”

“Well, according to the Council records Willow has managed to bring back so far, we’ve found references to a Gollum Master who immerged from the Red Sea, Ydric the Insane, Owgmont the Slayer of Souls, Illyria the Merciless, Ereshkigal, and something simply called ‘Sleep,’ with a capital S.”

“And they’re all roaming around?” Spike demanded.

“No, no. They’re all contained, some of them quite ingeniously in what is called the Deeper Well.”

“But not the god who’s giving you trouble now?” the vampire asked.

“No,” Willow said. “We haven’t been able to figure out who he or she is yet.”

“And so we were hoping you might know something,” Giles said. “If we shared some details.”

Spike shrugged, crushing out another butt to make a lovely pair of marks on the table. One dream, soon, he’d have to get Buffy to let loose on some really posh china shop, the two of them destroying everything in sight. Knowing no one could be hurt, would she like that? It was such a pleasant sound when delicate, expensive things were flattened into sharp, tiny pieces.

“I’m all yours,” he drawled, smiling when Giles’s face pinched up.

“Yes, well. I doubt that.” Giles looked down at his notes. “We have the details from Buffy’s dream, which we understand you also witnessed. But without context they aren’t very helpful, and frankly we’ve got too many reports of odd goings-on that it’s impossible to tell what may be an omen and what’s just a growing level of hysteria. We have a blood-red moon that just happened to show up in every night sky all over the world, as far as we know; a rain of giant toads in Trinidad that several witnesses swear turned into winged lions; reports of several earthquakes far too large for any natural seismic activity in Angola, Zambia, Mauritius, and Lesotho; and several unusually large infestations of fruit bats in temperate areas.”

“Fruit bats?”

“Yes.” Giles looked at the vampire. “That means anything to you?”

“Or does it just bother you that some bats like fruit?” Xander asked.

“Bloody Dracula,” Spike muttered. “Vampires aren’t related to bats!”

“Fruit bats,” Giles repeated patiently.

“I don’t really see a god announcing its presence with fruit bats.” Spike thought about the other bits. “The flying lions, that’d be griffins, right?”

“I would surmise.”

Spike shook his head in frustration. “Miss the demon girl.”

“Anya?” Xander asked, eyes wary.

He nodded. “Girl knew so much. A thousand years of it.” He looked at Buffy’s surrogate father. “Tell me you interviewed her about all that.”

“Extensively.”

“Well, get out your notebooks, or have Red bring them back if you were foolish enough to leave them somewhere a Hellmouth could suck ‘em up. She’d have known a lot about Rhamnousia.”

Giles’ eyes went wide.

“Whosia?” Xander asked.

“Goddess of Retribution,” the watcher said, then rolled his eyes slightly and nodded. “Of course.”

Spike nodded. “The scourge, the scale, the bloody griffins—that’s what we’ve got, I’ll wager. The Romans considered her someone who restored the balance of power after a crime.” He looked around the table.

“She’s also known as Adrasteia,” Giles said, “or Nemesis.”

“A crime?” Buffy asked, lips pouting in a way that made Spike want to kiss her all over in candlelight and feed her strawberries soaked in champagne, and that was an idea, wasn’t it? “Letting all the potentials become slayers wasn’t a crime.”

“It is from a demon perspective,” Spike said, then shrugged when everyone looked at him. “Just sayin’.”

“Yes, Spike is right. Considering how much this dimension has been valued by others for its balance of power, the sudden emergence of dozens of slayers could very well be seen by demons as a radical, even unfair tip in the balance of power.”

“What does she want?” Buffy asked, turning to Spike.

“Rhamnousia?” He snorted. “Nothing for herself. In her own way, she’s worse than a slayer. She sees it as her duty to the world to keep things in check, though she’s all about the punishment. You know, like payback according to Newton’s law.”

“For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction,” Willow said, eyes wide as well. “Oh, Gaia.”

“An equal reaction to suddenly having dozens of slayers?” Xander asked. “That cannot be of the good.”

Spike snorted.

“We have to explain—”

“Explain what, Watcher? You don’t mean any harm to the forces of evil in the world? Of course you bloody do.”

“The First was the one who took advantage of the imbalance of having two slayers,” Giles said. “We had no intention of making that imbalance. We didn’t even know the danger—”

“Ignorance of the law?” he sneered, reaching for another smoke.

“Enough, Spike,” Buffy said, looking at him seriously enough to keep it from being an order. “You’re right, as usual, when you try. Whether my refusing to die at the hands of that revolting thing of a Master was good or bad, it happened. And then there was Kendra, and now Faith, and now all the rest of them. But the First was the one who tried to manipulate the situation on a—on a level that meant the end of the world. Maybe we can use that.”

He smiled at her, the perfect warrior that she was. He raised an eyebrow, just a little bit, to let her know how much that turned him on. To his everlasting delight, her own eyebrow twitched just a little bit back.

“So we’re talking Glory-levels of bad here,” Xander said.

Spike shrugged. “Glory could only wish for the power of Rhamnousia, but you’re getting the idea.”

“Glory,” Buffy sighed. “It took all of us, a magical orb, a troll hammer, Dawn’s being all sliced up, and my death to keep her from getting what she wanted.”

Spike remembered so intensely his failure at keeping Dawn safe it took him a minute to realize the bit had said his name.

“What?” he asked, looking at her.

“You,” Dawn told him, having her own turn then when everyone looked at her. She swung her hair back over her shoulder and continued, “You had a victory over Glory, before the rest of us did. You got away from her.”

“Not before Her Evilness beat the unholy vamp stuffing out of him,” Xander said with an apologetic look at the vampire in question.

“Yeah, but you said you found him in the lobby, right?” Dawn said. “You know, I’ve always wondered, that means he was getting away from her when you found him.”

Spike decided he’d work on making a third burn mark and grabbed for his half-empty pack. Funny how it was always half-empty these days. Never full. Be nice to have the feeling of a full one in his pocket.

“You were in the elevator,” Buffy said, her voice betraying she hadn’t really thought about what that meant before. “You got away from her, got away from a hell god all on your own.” She glared at him. “How did you do that?”

He shrugged. “Just got her mad enough to break the chains they were using. Then I got in the hallway and from there the elevator is all. Nothing helpful to a battle plan.”

Buffy rolled her eyes and sighed, which didn’t seem particularly fair. “Why is it when you do nothing you brag about it for days, but when you’ve really done something incredible you don’t want to talk about it?”

“I talked about it,” he insisted, drawing out a fresh one even as the Slayer’s hand was on his arm, heat burning through the leather of his jacket so hot he might as well not have it on at all.

“You took on a god, Spike,” she said, her eyes letting him know it made her proud. But come to think of, him surviving that crazy bitch—and not spilling the beans about the Key—had been the first time she’d ever really shown him anything, wasn’t it? She’d kissed him, just lightly, her gratitude and warmth letting him know she wasn’t his slayer-substitute ‘bot, but someone who understood what he’d endured for her and Dawn that day. And he knew he’d have done it over and over again for the feel of her lips against his, her real eyes looking into his, her offering of his very first crumb.

“We need details,” she said now, which kind of ruined the whole thing because he so very much didn’t want to talk about it.

“She, uh, she made a lot of threats,” he said. “Hurt me a while. I said things knew would piss her off. She kicked me, but I’d loosened the chains. Got free.” He shrugged again. “Not difficult, really.”

“No, that won’t do,” Giles said, shaking his head like a bloody schoolmaster. “How did you know what would, as you say, piss her off?”

He shrugged again, feeling ridiculous. “It was obvious.”

“Your superpower,” Xander muttered, then shrugged when Spike shot him a look. Buffy just loved to tell the Scoobies about their little dream conversations, didn’t she? The vampire next threw a silent accusation at the Slayer, who only shrugged back. Damn chit.

“Spike,” and surprisingly it was Willow who spoke up. “We could really learn a lot about the details of you and Glory. If you did anything that we could use…”

“What is it you want, Red?”

“There’s a spell,” she said, surprising absolutely no one. “We could see it, you know, like on a screen. Just when you were with her, to know exactly you did and said to her.”

He had to think that over for a bit. Knowing Buffy loved him a bit—and how incredible was that?—he didn’t want to see him lying there on Glory’s honeymooner’s bed, the hell god digging her finger into his chest while he screamed in agony. Also, he really didn’t see how witnessing his little digs at the hell bitch was going to help anyone.

“Please, Spike,” the Slayer said, putting a warm hand on the cool skin of his empty hand. He thought he’d had a smoke in that. “I know it’s personal, but please.” Her eyes suddenly pleaded, which called up his demon and soul and pretty much everything else he had. “Any little detail could help.”

He took her hand up to his lips and kissed her knuckles, almost rolling his eyes at the thought that there was anything he wouldn’t do for her, if she really wanted it.

“So how does the spell work, Red?”

In short order, the witch pulled several items together. They were all wondering, obviously, if because this was a dream it wouldn’t work out, but she said some Latin and burned something that smelled bloody awful, and then from the wall of the library a large flat-screen TV swelled out, became solid, and turned on to show the image of him standing in his crypt with Xander when several rather scabby-looking little troglodytes came in.

One said, “Gentlemen! I'm so sorry to intrude, but I wondered if I might beg a moment of your time?”

Spike on the screen looked at Xander. “Friends of yours?”

The visitor punched Xander in the stomach.

“Guess not,” Spike said, fighting the diseased little creatures until they had him by the arms.

“Tie his hands!” said the creep evidently in charge. “Glory will want him restrained.”

Spike surged against the creatures on him, but couldn’t escape. “Let me go!”

“Careful with him,” the leader said. “She will want the key intact.

“Key?! Who's a key? I'm not the—”

At this point the leader shoved a gag into Spike’s mouth as the others dragged him out of the crypt.

There followed a lot of scuffling and dragging and Spike trying to talk around his gag.

“Is there a fast-forward button on this?” Spike the observer asked the witch, who nodded. The screen went blank, and then Spike was being brought before Glory, hands tied with thick rope behind his back.

“What the hell is that?” demanded the whiny hell god. “And why is its hair that color?”

The rash-ridden minions joyfully announced that Spike on the screen was “the Key.” Spike the observer snorted and looked critically at the fading polish on his nails.

“Really?” the hell god asked. “That's fantabulous! And impossible. He can't be the key because, see, the key has to be pure.”

When Glory sniffed Spike, Giles frowned.

“This is a vampire,” the god said.

“Hold,” Willow said as the watcher gestured, and the images on the screen froze.

“She knew you were a vampire,” Giles asked. “Just looking at you?”

“Yeah.” He cocked his head. “She was a hell god, right? Could tell I didn’t have a heartbeat, all that.”

Giles hummed, and after a moment Willow made a gesture that put the TV images in motion again.

“Lesson number one,” Glory said. “Vampires equal impure.”

Spike on the screen straightened up, sticking out his chin. “Yeah, damn right, I'm impure. I'm as impure as the driven yellow snow. Let me go.”

Glory looked exasperated. “You can't even brain-suck a vampire. He's completely useless.”

Spike nodded emphatically. “So, I'm just gonna let myself out.”

One of the crusty sycophants grabbed him and explained, “She protected this one above all others. She treated him as precious.”

Spike the observer winced, thinking again about that humiliating stint with the ‘bot. For the thousandth time he asked himself what the hell he had been thinking.

And suddenly he remembered something Buffy had said, that he’d been learning how to love her. He’d known then that he could never have her, and so he’d ordered up a thing that would be good enough for the likes of him, and at first the ‘bot had been enough, hadn’t it? Until he’d realized just how fake and empty it had been. And then one little touch from the real Buffy’s not-under-a-spell lips, and the machine had been nothing but an embarrassment.

“Really?” Glory on the screen was asking now. He still didn’t see what anyone was going to get out of watching this. “Precious? Let's take a peek at you, Precious.”

“Sod off,” Spike on screen said, obviously knowing it wasn’t going to end well.

Glory laughed and knocked him around a bit before she threw him on her tarty bed and shoved her finger inside his torso, saying, “But if the Slayer protects him, maybe appearances are deceiving. Maybe there's something on the inside.”

Spike on the screen screamed a bit more than Spike the observer cared for. Git. He shouldn’t have made half that much noise. Ugly cunt had just been sticking her fingers in him a few inches. He should have dealt with the situation with a bit more cool.

Then to his horror he realized Dawn was crying.

“Hold!” he shouted at Willow, and the images on screen froze. Looking around at wide eyes, Dawn’s and Buffy’s both too bright for his liking, he turned to the witch, demanding, “What’s the point of this? She tortured me long enough for a bloody demon bacchanal until I got her to kick me loose. I told you that already!”

But Willow’s eyes were bright and pale, kind of white, actually, and she said only, “Show me.”

And so he thought past all the torturing, and he would have gone past more than that, but the spell had him fast. He thought then of when he’d first had some sort of plan for getting away (skipping the whole apple peeling thing), when he’d told the hell bitch he knew who the key was and he’d tell her.

And there it was on the screen: him all hung up on the chains, feet not really able to do more than brush the floor while he finished off a glass of water, and then had the empty glass shoved in his face. Everyone at the table except Spike winced.

Glory mocked, “‘I need time. I need a drink.’ You're a very needy little bloodsucker, and it's not very attractive. So start talking.”

Everyone except the vampire in question leaned forward slightly, while Spike on the screen twisted his hands in the chains that held him and said, “Yeah. OK, the Key. Here's the thing. It's that guy on TV. What's his name?”

“On the television?”

“That show, the prize show, where they guess what stuff costs?” Spike on the screen looked behind him.

“Hold,” Willow said as Giles gestured.

He looked at Spike. “You were calculating your trajectory to the door?”

He shrugged again, getting kind of tired of it. Frankly, even with Buffy in it, this particular dream sucked.

“You decided to get her angry enough to, what, kick you out the door?”

“Worked, didn’t it?”

“It did?” Giles’ incredulity was clear.

Willow frowned, and the images on the screen continued.

“ _The Price Is Right_?” one of the toadies asked.

“Oh, Bob Barker!” said the other.

“We will bring you Bob Barker!” one said while Spike the observer snorted, actually enjoying himself for a moment. What idiots, honestly. “We will bring you the limp and beaten body of Bob Barker!”

But then Glory knew he was lying and confronted him.

“Yeah,” Spike on the screen admitted, lips curling with a laugh. “But it was fun. And guess what, bitch? I'm not telling you jack. You're never gonna get your sodding Key, 'cause you might be strong, but in our world, you're an idiot.”

Dawn and Willow giggled. Xander snorted, but it sounded approving.

“I am a god,” Glory said.

“The god of what, bad home perms?”

“Shut up!” Glory said, stomping around. “I command you, shut up!”

Spike on the screen said, “Yeah, OK, sorry, but I just had no idea that gods were such prancing lightweights.” Again, he looked at the door, angling his body slightly. Then he sneered at Glory, eyes sharp. “Mark my words, the Slayer is going to kick your skanky, _lop_ sided ass back to whatever place would take a cheap, whorish, fashion victim, ex-god like you.”

While most around the table boggled at the screen, Glory performed a perfect spin-kick that shot Spike out of his chains, through the door, and out into the hall.

The bloodied vampire on the screen painfully grunted, “Good plan, Spike,” even while he dragged himself down the hall, forced the elevator doors open, fell onto the descending car, and then opened the trapdoor to fall into the elevator itself. Everyone, minus one, watched him rise to his feet, ready to fight more, then basically collapse when he knew Buffy had arrived.

The screen went dark then, and there was a supremely awkward moment while the rest of them just sort of sat there while Spike wondered what they were all freaking out about. What did they think being tortured by a hell bitch was going to look like?

“I knew I was right,” Buffy announced, looking at Spike.

“What?” he sneered.

“That mouth of yours can even get under the skin of a god.” She held up a hand with slayer speed. “And don’t try to make that a dirty remark.”

“Wasn’t going to,” he mumbled, rubbing at one of his burn marks on the table. “And dry your eyes, Niblet. I got all better, didn’t I?”

Dawn sniffled. Xander pulled a clean tissue out of his pocket that she took with a little nod.

“Told you there was no point in watching it.”

“I most strongly disagree,” Giles said, looking down at the notes he’d jotted during Glory’s little show. “You undermined the strength of a hell god by insulting her beauty. In fact, you precisely targeted her vanity and got her to lose control.”

He raised up a shoulder and let it drop. “The higher they think they are, the more the little things bother them.”

“So, what?” Xander said skeptically, though his eyes were still a little wide. “We defeat a Roman god of vengeance by telling her she’d got lousy taste in outer wear?”

“Rhamnousia doesn’t think that way,” Spike objected. “It was never about the look for her, only about justice.”

“Like a—”

“No,” he told Harris. “Not like a vengeance demon. None of this ‘he did this so he gets it back a thousand times’ lark. Rhamnousia is all about balance.”

“And we’re very much out of balance.” Giles reached up under his glasses and pinched his nose.

“A bit.”

“So for once the forces of good are in the lead, and we’re going to get punished for it?” Xander demanded.

“For once?”

Spike found he was on his feet, furious and full of rage and just generally pissed off. Turning from the boy, he looked at the dream sunlight beaming in the windows and just wanted to break something. Something big. Something really noisy and uninsured.

“Spike?” Buffy’s voice was cautious, and that hurt too.

“You lot have no idea.” For the first time, he wondered if he could leave a dream with her still in it.

“Then why don’t you enlighten us?”

He turned to the watcher with a snarl and found Buffy standing there. The retort on his tongue died a quick and ignoble death, and she was all glorious and glowing again. Seriously, what was he supposed to do when she did that?

“You told me the truth once,” she said. “A truth I didn’t want to hear. You said I wasn’t ready, and I wasn’t. But it was still what I needed to hear.”

“Slayer.” He shook his head.

“So tell us, all of us, right now.” She gestured around them, and he felt her gaggle of friends staring at him, waiting.

“I don’t have the answers, pet.”

“But you know something.”

He closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath. Breath fed the blood—something Angelus and Dru and Darla and for all he knew even the Master had never worked out.

Breath fed the blood.

“I’ve seen worlds with no light,” he said, looking into memories so dark he’d long ago buried them under booze and violence. “Peered into frozen realms where there’s nothing. No hope. No chance of being better. Places where evil didn’t just win, it pulverized its enemy and salted the ground.” He laughed. “It’s why I went to you when Angelus was going to release Alcathla. I knew what the end of the world really meant. I’d seen it.”

He reached out and smoothed a loose bit of hair off her face, trembling inside at the warmth of her.

“Now, I’ve never seen the other side, but I know from more than just your report that there are places where evil’s been banished. And everything there is light and…” He shook his head. It wasn’t his place to describe something like that. He thought back to what she’d said, but it was too personal to use here.

He refocused. “Worlds like this one, they’re made for warriors, Buffy. Light and dark, good and evil: they all of them meet here. This world is an arena, with just precious few others like it. Here battles are lost and won, and it means something.” He couldn’t help looking at the others, knowing they’d never understand, but he couldn’t put this all on the Slayer. “It, all of it, means something.

“Yes, this world has faced darkness, but it’s had some bloody sweetness and light too, ain’t it? The worst you ever had it here, there was always somebody fighting, somebody trying to make it better. Do you really have no idea how rare that is? You live in this world, and you have no notion of what it means that—that things mean something! That what you do actually matters.”

He looked down into eyes more dear than his final breath. “It’s why it was so hard for you, luv, when you came back. You’d been to a place where the last battle had been fought, and you could rest. And then you came here, when all a soul wants to do is rest, and it never can. And then then you…” His voice broke, which was a buggering knife to the chest. “And you keep on fighting.

“Why do you think I love you, Buffy? Before and then even after you died, you stand on the edge of the world, and you face the darkness and make it light. You made me come out of the shadows, and I damn sure didn’t want to. And now I’m here. I’m here, Slayer, right on the edge with you, and there’s nowhere I’d rather be.”

She smiled, eyes luminous with her radiant heart. And her voice was so soft as she asked, “And why do you think I love you back?”

“What?” Dawn asked, not having heard that last bit.

“Oh, bloody hell,” Spike groaned, turning away. Why didn’t he just strip naked and do his big ole willy-waving sexy dance?

“I think Spike’s point is obvious,” Buffy said loudly. “What’s going on here is important to more than just this one dimension, this one world.”

“Yes, and thus it’s piqued the interest of a god,” Giles said, polishing his glasses even though he had to know everyone expected him to do just that. Or maybe because of it. The watcher was always walking the line between what he should do and what he was expected to do. No wonder he was so stiff.

“We need to talk to her,” Buffy said, looking around. “Directly to her. Get her to negotiate.”

“Spike, any ideas?” Giles asked.

“Me? A vampire? Want to draw the attention of a god whose main job is beating down people for being arrogant?”

“I see your point.”

“If it’s a dimensional thing,” Dawn said, “maybe I could help somehow.”

“And I’ve got the magics,” Willow said.

“And I’ve got one good eye and a swell new hammer,” Xander said.

 _Come to think of it._ Spike looked at the boy a little closer.

“Huh,” the vampire said, looking over to see Giles fixed on Xander as well.

“Huh.”

“What’s with the huhing?” Xander asked, leaning back.

“You see everything,” Spike said. “So that bloody maggot with a god complex took one of your eyes.” He looked at the black patch, ignoring the hurt in the eye staring back at him. “You paid for that gift already.”

“It is just like something Nemesis would do,” Giles said, then held up his hands when everyone turned to him. “Nemesis is most renowned for punishing people with what she feels are overly great or too many gifts, people who use their advantages of beauty or brains or strength.”

“Narcissus!” Dawn blurted. “That’s the guy who was so pretty he fell in love with his own reflection in a pool and starved to death when he couldn’t stop staring at himself. That was Nemesis, right?”

“Quite. Xander’s ability to thrive while being without the gifts of those around him, his lack of hubris: they should appeal to Nemesis greatly.”

“I can’t tell,” Xander complained. “Am I being complimented or insulted?”

“Bit of both,” Spike told him.

“Xander, what does it matter if it means maybe you could talk to Rhamoosa—”

“Rhamnousia,” Spike and Giles said together.

“Whatever her name is. If we could open up any sort of communication, figure out how to keep from punishing us by—I don’t know! Wiping out all the new slayers? The women I made Willow call up?”

“You didn’t make me. You asked me, and I wanted to.”

“Great! Maybe she’ll just kill all the witches of the world too!”

“Nemesis is more personal in her retribution than that,” Giles said, “though you may be right about her killing the new slayers.”

“Giles!”

“But talking to her is definitely the best option, and Xander would seem to be our best spokesman.” He looked over to the boy in question. “Assuming you have no objections?”

Xander shrugged. “Sit down for a nice chat with an all-powerful god seeking to punish anyone who has it too good? Color me excited.” He looked at Willow. “So, how do we set this up?”

Willow’s eyes widened. “I have no idea.”

“Major research mode then. I’ll bring the popcorn.”

But the witch shook her head. “None of the books I’ve gotten back would have anything on something like that. We’ll have to get back to the waking world.”

Watching everyone frown, Spike asked, “Not a problem, is it? You all go on back and hit the books, which, let’s face it, has never been the Slayer’s thing.”

“Hey!”

He gave those flashing green eyes one of his better smiles, tilting his head. “Well, I’m just saying, you wouldn’t have to leave, you know, right away.”

“I’m afraid none of us can leave right away,” Giles said.

“Yeah? Why’s that?”

“Daniel,” Buffy said, giving him a little wince. “He’s watching over us, making sure we get a good night’s sleep.”

Spike frowned at the half-explanation, and then turned to the Watcher.

“It’s not his fault,” Dawn said. “What with everything, and with the way we keep waking up after talking with you, and, you know, everything.” She shrugged.

“Daniel said we were all getting too tired,” Willow continued. “Losing focus. It’s been ten days now since the Hellmouth, and we’re just all getting a little…droopy.”

“He’s placed us all under a light spell,” Giles said. “He insists we get a full nine hours.” He looked at his watch. “And it’s only been fifty minutes.”

“And we sorta promised we wouldn’t spend the whole dreamtime working,” Willow said. “He told us we needed to take a break. Do something familiar and restful.”

Spike stopped himself from objecting that he didn’t feel like staring at Buffy’s groupies for nine hours without going someplace more exciting than a public library, but that left him with nothing to suggest. He looked at his Slayer with a shrug.

“I’m not usually around when you aren’t all fighting something or planning to fight something,” he said.

“Well, since I seem destined to be the man of the hour,” Xander said as he stood up, and then gave a little bow. “Saying that with no pride whatsoever in my heart at all, let me suggest this is definitely a movie night, and I will once again bring the popcorn.”

“I vote _Notting Hill_ or _Love Actually_!” Dawn squealed.

“Please.” Willow rolled her eyes even as her gestures were turning library furniture into soft couches and an abundance of pillows. “A dozen relationships in that movie, and not one of them about someone gay.”

“There’s a gay man in _Notting Hill_.”

“Who’s played as a tired stereotype for cheap laughs.”

“Besides,” Xander said, holding now several buckets of popcorn he started to distribute. “Who said we’re starting with a chick flick?”

“I’m with the boy on that one—but don’t get used to it.” Spike ignored Xander’s rolling eyes as Giles produced a tray holding several glasses and a bottle of Laphroaig Islay single malt.

“Nothing in black and white,” Dawn said, scowling at him.

“And God knows, no bloody musicals,” Giles muttered as he kept the tray out of the vampire’s reach, poured a generous amount into a glass, and then handed it over.

“ _Raiders of the Lost Ark_ ,” Xander announced, passing out beers and sodas now.

Amid nods and agreements, Spike lay back on a posh sofa of red velvet and held his arms out, sighing in deep pleasure as Buffy filled his arms. To his surprise, the next few hours were rather lovely, what with Buffy’s trust and a fairly decent cinematic line up. Everyone watched and dozed, and the scotch was bloody fantastic. Who knew Rupes had such good taste? Probably just couldn’t afford this sort of thing on a sometimes-watcher’s salary.

When everything went all fuzzy and he finally woke up in the nothing room, he was filled with her softness in his arms, the smell of her hair, and the sensation of the way she laughed and sighed against his chest. The fact they’d stolen quite a few kisses during the action scenes hadn’t hurt a bit either.

So for a while he just lay there, in no hurry to get to the next Scooby meeting and the next round of “save the world.” He was too busy marveling at the way having been next to her for so long seemed to have left an indelible presence on his skin.

Rhamnousia. Now there was a name a fellow hadn’t heard in a few dozen years. She was a little like Anyanka had been, the personification of vengeance, but she had so much more going on than that. She was more about poetic justice. She hated when anyone really got ahead, which was probably why this world had banished her so thoroughly from its everyday affairs with its love of profit and caste/class systems and the whole needy vs. greedy.

He’d been warned about her, naturally, once he’d had the incredible good fortune of becoming a vampire. Humans could never understand the power, the sense of being connected that a vampire got even while crawling out of a grave. And so there was no way to convey the fear they felt—yet never spoke of—for forces that could take the good things away from them. Much better to cower in fear of the faceable forces of sunlight and stakes and even the Slayer than to think about general might of magic that might just squash them like bugs.

And as far as he knew, it had been quite a while since anyone not human had come to the direct attention of Rhamnousia, let alone a lowly vampire. After all, the evil undead didn’t exactly get distracted looking at their reflection, did they?

But Spike couldn’t help thinking about his recent, incredible happiness and the way that particular god saw to it that everyone paid the piper.

Was his little dream-world reward part of what had brought Rhamnousia here? Was being in the Slayer’s dreams really that big a thing on the sodding cosmic scale?

He didn’t know, but he’d bet five to eight that somehow all this meant he’d have to give her up, have to surrender having her in these dreams. After all, he’d always known it was too good for him, hadn’t he? The idea that he’d earned it, was that supposed to be enough? With a bit of burning from the guts out? So his eyeballs had melted in their sockets, who cared about what he’d endured? The trials to get his soul had been more a pissing contest than anything of substance. All he deserved was eternal torment, and he knew it, not like that poncy Angelus who thought somehow he could brood his way to redemption.

No, he knew what he was. Knew what a stain on creation he’d been for a hundred years, a wretched creature strutting around while he killed the forces of light and was proud of it. He was the Slayer of Slayers. He had a special suite reserved in hell, someplace where the energy of physical pain was going to be replaced with the void of being eternally alone. Was it supposed to be some surprise a goddess of balance might come and take away the dream existence he’d managed to con his way into?

And even if Rhamnousia hadn’t noticed him, that bitch went after the gifted. There was no way Buffy wouldn’t draw her attention, and Buffy liked dreaming of him.

And that was something, wasn’t it? He smiled a bit grimly. His dream life was a commodity, like any other piece of goodness and happiness and Easter baskets. He might not be worth a god’s notice, but what he had was. He had the deed to being with Buffy forever.

And it wasn’t like he could complain if he didn’t get to keep that, was it? He’d had, God, hours and hours of being with her, loving her, being inside her, feeling her everywhere, being not only with her but being with her and her little friends, like he was part of something. Were those glorious hours supposed to be less than a deserved reward for someone with hundreds of deaths on his tally sheet? He had to be way over in the plus column.

He really had been dirt, if dirt could be evil. But for Buffy he was more. And with that thought, unconsciously he reached for her.

And found her, lying pressed up against him in a vast white bed in a large, open room with white stone walls and French doors open to a scenic beach view. There was furniture around them like people got in expensive hotels, filmy white curtains blew in the ocean breeze, and he smelled salt and a trace of rum.

“Slayer?”

She hummed a bit, stretching against him but not really being awake, trusting him to be there so completely he couldn’t even think about it. Instead, he nuzzled into her hair, her neck, the scent of her, until he was, of course, hard as a rock. With a twinge of guilt he smothered ruthlessly, being evil and all, he turned her on her back, nudging her knees apart. She wasn’t saying no, so that wasn’t not yes, right? (Though more important she was kissing his skin in her sleep.)

Knowing she’d be a little dry he put his hand down and rubbed the pre-come leaking out of him and slicked himself up for her. He positioned himself and thrust in as deeply as he could go, bottoming out to his balls, and then he was inside, her shared heat surging through his whole undead body.

“Spike,” she whispered, smiling and starting to slide around beneath him.

“Sorry,” he told her, hoping she really didn’t mind. “Just let me, please. Just let me.” And he was in a rhythm then, thrusting into her so ideally he could only hope she felt it too. It wasn’t worth it if she didn’t feel it too.

And then she was moving against him, so precisely, so very much fitting into all his needs and spaces, including the bit of pain of her nails in his back, not raking but digging in so precisely. It was like the bloody universe had made him an ideal mate, a perfect lover. And the thought tacked itself on that of course this meant he couldn’t keep her, but he banished it with a harder thrust of his hips, and Buffy made one of those deep, breathy noises that commanded any and all attention, and he was lost in the simple sound and smell and feel and taste and sight and what the buggering hell all else he could take of her.

It was a while later that he realized she was working hard to breathe under his weight, and he chuckled at himself as he rolled off. Inconsiderate arse.

Yeah, that had alone been more than a bit of flotsam had ever deserved in the cosmic scale. All he had to do was keep the memory close, and he could face dusting, or worse, with a bloody smile on his face.

“Spike?” she asked, and it sounded a little lost.

“What?” He turned over instantly, keeping off of her but covering her, every nerve on alert. He knew they were in some sort of Club Med hotel room, probably in the Bahamas, but other than that he felt nothing, no presence of other people or demons. No danger he could see.

“Spike?” she asked again, and she was looking at him with the softest little smile.

“Yeah, Slayer?”

“More.”

He stared at her, and then her hot little hand was cupping him, which meant he was hardening past her reach.

She nodded and shifted, and he was inside her again, just like that.

She shivered and relaxed and welcomed him in. “Yes,” she hissed, all tropical heat and wallowing sibilance. “Never leave me.”

“Whatever you want, Buffy. As long as you, oh God, want it.”

“Don’t want _it_. Want you.” She wrapped her legs around him, crushing him and pulling him toward her so hard his eyes rolled back. “Just be inside me as long as you can.”

“Forever, luv.”

“Longer than forever.”

He laughed, which hurt a bit, considering what he’d just realized.

And she stilled, holding him in place to every last millimeter.

“Don’t,” she said, and her voice was that of a commander.

He frowned, trying to think past the fog of his pleasure to see what he wasn’t doing for her.

“What?”

“I know that look. You’re thinking something.” Her eyes looked so deeply into his he felt himself start to shake. “Something sad.” She bore down, tightening around him almost cruelly, blissfully, eyes flashing as he shuddered and called out her name. “Something that makes you look at me like that.”

He shook his head, but otherwise couldn’t move.

“Promise never to leave me.”

“I—Buffy.”

Her hands grabbed his head, bringing his eyes into alignment with hers so he had nowhere to hide. “Not for my own good. Not for some god, I don’t care who or what. Not to make me happy, or safe, or any of the above.” Her legs squeezed him even more tightly. She’d have broken that soldier boy’s back by now. “You don’t get to leave me even to save me.”

He tried to say something beyond the suppressed rhythm of his hips as she pulled him in ever deeper.

“Promise me,” she demanded, not even blinking now as her eyes dictated his obedience with a command more powerful than Dru’s worst thrall, and her body devoured him. “Promise me you’ll never leave me.”

“It’s too…I’m not…”

“If you love me, promise me.”

“I do love you!”

“Then promise me, damn it!”

He broke, further and deeper than he ever had, the way Glory and the First had tried to make him break, the way he’d sworn to himself he never would, and all because this was a battle in which he couldn’t fight. She had left him with nothing to rally against.

“I promise,” he whispered, and it was so selfish, but it was what she wanted, and he would never deny her what she wanted. Whoever would have thought what she wanted would be him?

“Again!”

He came inside her, muttering his promise over and over while she watched, while she kept him inside her with muscle and blood and bone.

“Again,” she whispered, shivering with a gasp.

“I promise.”

She nodded.

“I promise too, Spike. I promise I’ll never leave you.”

His face was buried in her neck, his body refusing to soften. For a piece of eternity they lay there, and there was no oath he’d ever given or received that had ever meant more—not being born, or killed, or sired.

“We’ll face it together, Slayer,” he said some long while later. “The two of us together, or nothing.”

She hummed in contentment, then went and bit his ear, hard.

“Ow!”

“It’s what you get for thinking anything else,” she said primly, kissing it better before she rolled them over and splayed herself out beside his body. “Don’t fight the shift.”

He frowned, then felt the world around them blur a bit and relaxed into it. To his surprise, little had changed when the gray haze went away, at least, they were still in a bed, though it was smaller and smelled of gym socks. He heard the distant noise of a party—thumping music, people laughing, and it was like the room somehow shrunk away from reality into its own tight prison from which he wanted no escape.

“You're too far away from me,” she panted.

“I’m right here.” He reached for her, filling himself with her while some presence all around them greedily rejoiced and he felt energized by pulses of sexual excitement within himself and without.

“You have to keep,” she moaned, “touching me.”

Not quite sure what fantasy this was, he plunged into some two-bodied, slow-motion orgy as willingly as his hot, tight, grasping flesh could stand while Buffy needlessly ordered him again never to stop touching her. And it just went on and on like sex was the air they breathed and the sex just fed on itself. It was so wonderfully perverse he wanted the whole thing on tape.

 Later—he guessed it was later—the room sort of let them go, and she was gasping in his arms and laughing.

“What the bloody hell was that?”

She giggled weakly. “Much better this time.”

He opened his mouth to demand a better explanation, but then she was snoring in his ear, and he was just too exhausted to do more than fall asleep.

In fact, he slept for a while in the nothing room too, and then had a smoke and tried to figure out what was bothering him. He knew it had something to do with Buffy and that last promise he’d made her, but it was more than that. Something had been digging at him for a while now.

But he was no closer to seeing it by the time he was tossing the last of his cigarette at the blank wall. Shaking his head, he took to his feet.

And he was being watched.

Spinning around, fists raised, he faced another blank wall. Then another. There was absolutely no one there.

But he knew he’d felt eyes on him. And there had been something familiar about it, something nonthreatening, actually. Had he even felt something like eager hope?

With a growl, he stepped forward and found himself back in the “movie night” arrangement, though the windows glowed with sunlight and there were no snacks in sight. Not even more of that brilliant scotch.

“Sorry about that,” the witch said as she popped into the room. “Andrew.”

“Andrew?”

“He really wants to see you. Buffy and I caught him in the middle of a spell.” She frowned a little in confusion. “Considering how far along he’d gotten, I thought you must have felt something.”

He nodded, grateful to her once again. “I did. Thought I sensed someone watching me.”

“He just wants to see you.”

“Tell him from me if he actually does manage to pop in here I’ll bite him proper.”

She grinned. “Buffy’s telling him something along those lines now.”

“You mean, Buffy’s not dreaming yet?”

“No, but she will be in just a minute, I’m sure.”

On cue, the Slayer walked into the room, the watcher not far behind her and holding several video tapes.

“Hope you don’t mind I sent Willow ahead,” she said, walking up to him with a smile and a kiss.

“Not a problem.” He looked at Rupert. “More movies?”

“Tapes of the girls, slayers. Buffy and I wanted to ask your opinion about several concerns of ours.”

“And that’s my cue,” Willow said. She smiled at him. “I can only tell someone’s a good fighter when the loser is dust. Besides, I’m still trying to get something more on how we might contact Rhamnousia. So far the books haven’t done much more than mention her, and there’s been nothing on contacting any of the Oceanids.”

“Might try one of her brother-in-laws, Prometheus. He’s always had a soft spot for humans and tricksters.”

“That’s a really good idea.”

“Don’t need to sound so amazed about it, Red.”

With a laugh and a roll of her eyes, the witch popped out of sight.

Sprawling out on the red sofa and smiling as Buffy joined him, he watched Giles push a tape into the VCR now next to the TV.

“So, what are these great concerns of yours?”

“Buffy and I think it would be best if you just watched this without our input and told us what you think.”

After a shrug for the watcher and a kiss to his girl’s temple, Spike concentrated on the screen, which showed a series of videos of the various slayers sparring with each other. It only took a few before the vampire saw what they must be talking about.

He’d noticed it before, really, when they were all just potentials gathering together to take on the First, but he hadn’t thought much about it. And then Willow had told him about how the other slayers didn’t seem as strong as Buffy or Faith.

“You can really see it here,” he said as Kennedy and a slayer he didn’t know were trading basic combinations.

“That’s Eliza,” Buffy said, her tone betraying how little she admired the girl. “And she’s been training for two years.”

Spike nodded as he saw Kennedy easily block a punch and then sweep Eliza’s legs out from under her. “Looks like Miss Doolittle could take on a pissed fledgling, maybe. With a crossbow.”

“There’s no rhyme or reason to it that I can see,” Giles complained. “Trained or not, older or not. The girls just vary in their abilities and strength for no—oh. You may enjoy this one.”

The images cut to another bout, this one between a Korean Amazon and Violet, the little potential almost afraid of her own shadow, who then promptly bested the Amazon in less than a minute.

“Look who’s come into her own,” Spike said with a smile.

“And Kim is one of our better fighters,” Buffy said, admiration quite clear now. Then she laughed as the two slayers on screen lingered on the sparring mat.

“I’ll get you yet, Red Baron,” Kim said.

“You and whose Nubian army?” Vi said back, bouncing with energy. Then something caught her attention off screen, and she settled on her feet, suddenly looking quite deadly, as Faith entered the frame.

“Shall we?” the dark-haired slayer asked with a grin.

This time, the sparring went on for several minutes, and while it was clear Faith was still the better fighter, she was making an obvious effort against Vi’s deceptively delicate-looking attacks.

“You have her square off against Kennedy yet?”

“Should we?” Buffy asked.

“Not important, but it’d be fun to see. Kennedy needs a little taking down.”

Spike’s words lingered as they all thought about Rhamnousia’s way of taking people down.

“So you see, even the strength and skill of the potential is not a clear sign of strength for the slayer,” the watcher said unhappily.

“Well, it makes sense, right?”

Giles and Buffy exchanged a look he didn’t get before the watcher asked, “How so?”

He shrugged. “It’s the nature of being the Chosen One, I expect. If you could just look over the potentials and figure out who was going to be the best one, the Council could do it, or something. It’s up to the divine to pick the next unlucky lady. Now you’ve gotten them all to be slayers, it figures some are going to lead the pack and some are going to wish no one had come knocking on their door.”

“So you don’t think it’s a case of having spread the strength of the slayer too far?”

Spike watched the screen as Faith and Vi called it a draw, though it was obvious Vi knew Faith had led on points.

“Some people can be handed all the power in the world and not have a soddin’ clue what to do with it. Some get a scrap and conquer the known world. Slayers are just like everybody else. I’ve seen some made me want to dance all night and some I wouldn’t bother to push down the stairs.”

He watched as the tape showed another mismatched bout, not knowing either of the girls. “There was a slayer once, somewhere in the ‘50s. She lasted less than a week. Tia, her name was. Vampires used to joke about her, especially when there were Italian vamps around. ‘Don’t feel strong enough right now to take on Tia,’ and all that. She was a tall girl, I heard, and roomy in the hips. Nearly pissed herself during the only slaying she did, which wasn’t much, even for a few days’ worth. Was a Granok demon who did her in. One good swipe and she was gone. But the slayer who replaced her wasn’t any better.

“I figure that’s where that Cruciamentum started, before it became an excuse to get rid of slayers who wouldn’t toe the line. Some slayers might have been the best of the lot available, but they still weren’t up to snuff. Since most of ‘em are called at fifteen or sixteen, waiting until they were eighteen meant they should have learned how to handle themselves by then. If they couldn’t, it was enough time for somebody too young at the last calling to be ready the next time around.”

“Christ,” Giles whispered.

“God, that’s cold-blooded,” Buffy said.

Spike was spared from coming up with something to say when the video ended and the tape ejected out of the player. Silently, Giles replaced it with another, which played a long scene of Buffy leading the whole group, including Faith, through a session of slayer tai chi. Again, it was clear that some of the slayers were better than others, but not the same ones that had been better in the sparring ring.

“Who’s that in the back there?” Spike asked. “The Japanese girl wearing the white jumper?”

“That’s Masako,” Buffy said. “She’s pretty new.”

“Not to being in touch with her center, she’s not. How is she in sparring?”

“She and Rona seemed pretty well matched. I’m not sure though. I need to spend more time with all of them.”

“So you’ve got potentials who were good at some things and bad at others, and it’s the same even though now they’re slayers. Makes sense.”

“I think that’s where we need to start,” Giles said. “Instead of thinking of them all as slayers, we need to start figuring out which girls should be what types of slayers.” He laughed, eyes wide. “Types of slayers.”

“You’ve had them before, Rupes. Just not at the same time.”

“True. I’ll ask Willow to focus on watcher’s diaries.” He shook his head. “When she’s not trying to find ways to contact Rhamnousia.”

“Feeling a little light on the witchery front there, Rupes?”

“Willow can handle it,” Buffy said. “Daniel’s helping.”

“Yes, and I’ll see if perhaps some of the British coven would be willing to join us.”

“So you’ve made Phoenix your new prime location?” Spike asked.

“For the moment. Daniel’s husband Michael has some power with his position in the San Carlos Apache Reservation, and we’ve been offered a number of unexpected resources.”

“And add that to the list of people who want to meet you,” Buffy told Spike.

“Daniel? You still staying in his house?”

“Houses, actually. We’re talking filthy rich.”

“He has a sort of eco-friendly complex,” Giles said, frowning at his Slayer. “He’s used several of his properties in the past to assist beneficial demons and others. It’s why I called on him in the first place, once I knew who my charge would be.”

Buffy looked at him in surprise. “You made friends with Daniel when you learned you were going to be my watcher?”

“Yes.”

“Much with the long-term planning.”

“While I am all too aware of how inadequate my training to be your watcher has been in some respects, I assure you I did know enough to establish nearby sanctuaries.”

“And Daniel has no problem with that? I thought you were old watcher buddies.”

“We were colleagues, but my situation on the Hellmouth is what made us friends. We are united in purpose, Buffy. As are Daniel and Michael Tinto.”

“What? The Apache’s last name isn’t Runs with Fur, or something?”

“Really, Spike.”

“Well, it’s just the last time we were dealing with one of your Indians he gave the Whelp syphilis and turned into a bear.”

Buffy snickered. “And you were a pincushion.”

“Not a fond memory, luv.”

Giles cleared his throat. “The point is—”

Willow appeared with what seemed a louder than usual _pop_. She held a book in her hands, and her eyes fixed on the watcher with anger.

“Why didn’t you say something?” she demanded.

“Willow?” Buffy asked, standing up.

“I know you’ve read this!” the witch said, waving the lightly scorched volume at Giles before just throwing the thing, which had to weigh half a stone, into his lap. His loud _oof_! made it clear just where it had landed.

“You could have told her, told us!” Willow went on. “Do you have any idea how much this could have helped us? Helped her?”  
            The watcher wasn’t looking at her, though, staring at the large book in his hands like he didn’t know how books worked.

“Giles—”

“I assure you, Willow, I’ve never seen this book before in my life!”

She closed her mouth and then took in a deep breath, obviously struggling against something inside—a fight with which Spike was all too familiar.

“Promise me, Giles,” Willow said, her teeth clenched. “Promise me you haven’t read that.”

“Willow,” Buffy said, stepping forward cautiously as the witch’s eye turned to her with pain. “What’s going on?”

“I swear, I’ve never seen this,” Giles said, his voice getting quiet as he was lost in the content of the pages he was flipping. After a few moments, he looked up, his eyes horrified. “I had no idea this actually existed.”

“Will, what?” Buffy asked, looking back and forth between her friends.

“It’s a history,” the witch said, her eyes still flashing. “It chronicles all the slayers who lived past their twenty-first year.”

“Surprised it’s so large, then,” Spike said, figuring it was best he just kept his seat on the couch.

“It’s very detailed,” the witch said with a sneer that went a little watery. Buffy reached out a hand to comfort her, and Willow’s eyes turned miserable.

“I have heard of this volume,” Giles said, still flipping through its pages with amazement. “But it was supposed to have been lost centuries ago.”

“Someone’s updated it.”

Flashing her a frown, he turned to the end, reading through the last pages.

“Bloody hell.”

Spike frowned. “Want to share with the class?”

“This has information about Buffy, and Angel, and you.”

“In print?” Buffy asked.

“It’s not printed, not by a press. This is magic.” He looked at the last page. “It stops mid-sentence, ‘ _Amata,_ _quae dilexerunt_.’”

“‘She who was loved, she who loved,’” Spike said with a smile. “Sounds about right.”

“But I don’t understand,” Giles said. “A book like this would have been invaluable. I could have been—I could have helped.”

“I don’t get it,” the Slayer told him.

“Buffy,” Willow said, turning to her and taking her hands. “It’s about the few slayers in history who’ve made it to really being an adult. And from what I’ve read pretty much all of them broke with the Council and…” She looked at Spike. “And taken lovers who weren’t human.”

“Huh?”

Willow gestured at the book in which Giles’ face was now deeply buried. “The slayers in there are all twenty-two or twenty-three when their stories start. From what I can tell, the book was started by a watcher with strong magical gifts. Her slayer, I can’t pronounce her name, married a human man, and he was killed in battle before the year was out. After that, she lived alone and kinda became a hermit, and then she shows up in this battle and there’s a Serpavo demon fighting at her side. And they were together—”

“Please tell me it was platonic,” Spike groaned.

“The book doesn’t say, but the demon helped her live well into her thirties, until they were both killed in a great battle with a horde of Drokken beasts being led by an Old One.” The witch’s hands were fluttering. “But there are other men, and a few women too, actually, who end up being the slayer’s partner or lover, and not one of them is human. And all those slayers—well, almost all, there were a couple, but pretty much all of them lived a lot longer because of it.”

The Slayer just stared at her.

“In fact, for a few centuries there, the Council actually told slayers not to try to marry or even date humans. They came up with a ritual—”

“That sounds about right,” Buffy said, finding her voice.

“Why’d they stop it?” Spike asked, knowing how found the wankers were of their rituals and not able to keep from thinking that he would have greatly welcomed a little help in getting Buffy to see they could work out.

“Well, the ritual involved killing whatever human the slayer was involved with at the time, and when the last one tortured her watcher into telling her what they’d done, she ended up kinda slaughtering half the Council.”

“Good for her!”

Still engrossed in his reading, Giles only made a sort of half-noise of protest.

“Women, huh?” Buffy asked, smiling in a way that made the question supportive.

Willow’s eyes went dreamy.  “Oh, yeah. There was this one slayer, Adeliut, about 3,000 years ago, and she took up with this succubus warrior, and they had all kinds of battles together. There’s a drawing, even. All long hair and broadswords. They took on a legion of demons and won. And then they, ah, died in this avalanche. But they were really happy until then, I think.”

“Bloody hell,” Giles muttered. He looked up to meet the slayer’s inquiring gaze. “It would seem Willow is quite right. Part of a slayer’s sexual maturity would seem to involve the realization that no human man—or woman, Willow, quite right—could provide her with the equality needed for a true relationship.”

He looked at Spike then, surprising the vampire with an apologetic gaze. “If I had realized…”

“No worries, Watcher,” Spike found himself saying. “Would probably have just put us both off, anyway, you being all supportive.”

“I never apologized to you for—”

“If some book’s what you needed to realize trying to kill off the Slayer’s best demon fighter right before taking on the latest apocalypse was a bad idea, I don’t much fancy hearing an apology, Watcher.”

“Actually, it was realizing you closed the Hellmouth.”

“Well, that’s all right then.”

“So, I’m sorry.”

Spike shrugged. “You were all into your crumbling relationship with your Slayer. And how’s that going these days?”

Giles looked at Buffy, who only looked back with curiosity. Red was watching closely as well.

“It’s a rough adjustment,” he said finally. “I find my instincts are still more protective than is warranted, but I am working hard to find the best ways to be supportive without being a-a sad, ungrateful traitor.”

Spike shrugged again and started patting his pockets. “It’s hard for fathers to see their daughters as adults. God knows I’m probably going to have to get drunk when the bit finally gets her first real man.”

“That’s still years away,” Buffy proclaimed, ignoring Spike’s follow-up smirk as he lit up a new fag.

“But there’s more in the book,” Willow said. “There are all these slayers that never took up with…I mean, many of them just went without a partner. But then they had allies all over the place.”

Buffy frowned in concentration, and Red took a deep breath.

“There’s this thing, right? Where watchers lose their slayers, and they—it’s sad. But then sometimes when slayers get to their twenties, their watchers die or retire. And so then the slayers have to find new ways of making allies.”

“And they don’t exactly involve making nice with the Council, I’m guessing,” Buffy said.

“And there’s stuff in there about how slayers improve, what mistakes they made, tons of things.”

“It’s inexcusable,” Giles said, flipping a page. “To have denied slayers access to this just so they could control slayers better…inexcusable.”

“No bloody argument here.”

“OK, so I need to read the book. And so does Spike. And Xander, I’m thinking.”

“Xander?” Giles looked at her.

“And Faith. And all the slayers.” Buffy looked a little queasy. “Eventually.”

“Perhaps we should create a somewhat edited edition for those not yet, er, equipped to understand the, er…”

“R-rated bits?” Spike suggested.

Willow blew out a breath. “More like NC-17.”

“Really?” His eyes went to the book with new interest.

“And we’ll have to make a translation, of course,” the watcher said, ignoring the vampire that went to stand over his shoulder.

“Ordinarily, I’d be able to help with a basic translation spell, but considering the book’s magical already…”

“It’s all right, Will. It’s probably the sort of thing I’ll want to read in sections, anyway.”

Spike laughed, pointing at a passage in the book. “This one used to sing while slaying—without a spell, even. ‘ _Demons knew the song would be their last._ ’ And look, she had a way with hell hounds.”

“You’re quite good with this,” Giles said, turning to look over his shoulder. “Considering it’s Akkadian.”

“All the good histories are Akkadian,” the vampire said with a shrug.

“Excellent. We’ll leave this here with you, considering it’s a dream copy, and you can read it to Buffy.”

“Not exactly what I had planned for an evening in with the Slayer.”

“Oh, surely even in a dream world the two of you must want to do more than—”

“And that’s the signal to change the subject,” Buffy said, stepping forward. “Besides, Spike’s right.”

“I am, luv?”

“We’ve watched the tapes, discussed ancient mysteries, talked about the book. Now, if you two don’t mind, I’d like a little quality time with my vampire.”

Spike smiled with overt satisfaction.

The witch and watcher popped out, leaving the book behind.

She smiled then, satisfied herself, and actually did a little slinky step toward him.

“Now…”

And it hit him then. He stepped back a couple paces with the realization.

“Hey.”

“Spike?”

“Hang on.” He put up a hand, thinking. “I’ve figured it out.”

“Figured what out?”

“What’s been bothering me.”

She looked at him, waiting, a little on edge.

“Yeah. It’s got me more than a little brassed off, now I think about it.”

“What?” And to his relief, she truly did look bewildered.

“You’re using sex against me.”

She stared at him, open-mouthed, completely flummoxed.

“Three times now you’ve got me all hot and bothered before you made me promise something. You’re waiting until I can’t even think of saying no to make me say something else.”

She looked so horrified he closed his eyes in relief even as he reached out and drew her firmly against him, breathing into and all through her hair.

“Spike,” she said, strangling on the consonants.

“I love you, Buffy. I love you too much to need that. You want something from me, you just ask, all right?”

“I didn’t mean—”

“Yes, and I believe you. Just stop doing it, OK? I don’t need to be out of my mind with wanting you to tell you what you want to hear.”

She shuddered against him, and he felt her shame like a sunburn.

“I’m sorry.”

“Shhh. Pet. It’s all right. I know you didn’t realize. But that’s what we’re doing now, right? We’re telling each other the things that aren’t just starlight and roses. Just don’t do it again, all right? Don’t ask me for things when I’m so hot all can think about is you.”

“I’m so sorry.”

He shushed her again, even while her apology warmed him. “All’s forgiven, pet. Love. Buffy.”

“I’m just so scared.”

“You and me both. It’s too good.”

She pressed every inch of warmth against him, whispering, “It’s beyond too good. And with Rhamnousia out there…I don’t want to lose this. I can’t lose you, Spike. I can’t do this anymore without you.”

“I came back from the dead, Slayer. My soul burned my body to ashes, and I came back because I can’t be without you. I think I must have walked through Hell and taken on Beelzebub itself to be back with you. How else could I have this now?”

“Kiss me.”

He didn’t bother responding with words. Her lips were their own heaven. He let himself just drift for a while, warm and soft and with a specific purpose of making her feel what he felt. It was totally irrational, of course, that her lips could stoke him so high. He’d loved Dru for a hundred years, and yet every time they’d been together he’d felt something in her that wasn’t really there, some reserved part of herself that he’d tried to pretend was her demon, her madness, her pixies and stars and Miss Edith. And now he knew it was that while she’d loved him, it was only to a point, and at that point had been her daddy and her own madness.

The Slayer in his arms had nothing like that, no missing spaces. He held Buffy in his arms and had her completely, allowing him to give the same in return, every last particle of himself because it met a response, a resounding completion that told him he was safe, he was met, he was balanced out when he hadn’t even needed more than a bit of weight back. Buffy, this being of light and warrior of a strength beyond anything he’d ever known, she met him inch for inch, atom for atom, and he’d never known that anything like this was possible.

Let alone that he could be there, could feel it for himself.

“Inside me,” she whispered, surprising him. Was he not inside her yet? With a bit of unzipping and moving around, he pressed into the burn of her, seeking the furnace inside. He hoped his cool flesh brought her pleasure. He hoped his kisses brought her joy. He hoped his too solid flesh would melt and…damnit. No, no bloody Shakespeare.

She moaned in pleasure, and he tried to pay her sensuality its due. He thrust into her, seeking whatever would make her feel what he wanted, which was basically ecstasy and oblivion. She’d passed out in his arms before, and he’d felt like a champion five times more than when closing that sodding Hellmouth.

And then suddenly her green eyes were staring into him, and he flinched, a bleeding kid with his hand in the cookie jar, a thief with his hand in the till.

“Be with me,” she breathed out. “I can’t get there if you’re not with me.”

He screamed as she clinched around him, and then there was nothing for a long time except the feel and scent and heaven of her. And he really didn’t give a buggering fuck about all else.

 

**THE WANNABE**

_Do you think they'll really let us join their gang?_

At the time, he’d shrugged at Jonathan’s  question, all the while thinking hell would freeze over first. Even when he’d been a “guestage” and drawn up the Big Board, even when he fought in the last battle, he knew they didn’t really accept him as one of them. But he’d made himself a place as a sort of observer, until Buffy made him face up to what he’d done, and he’d cried into the seal of Danzalthar and closed the Hellmouth by admitting that he’d done something horrible and there was no one else to blame for it.

But that was the thing: he had admitted it. He’d been ready to die, honestly ready, and that might mean he wouldn’t burn in hell for what he’d done to his best friend, and he’d get to go to one of those nicer dimensions afterwards, maybe the one with nothing but shrimp, and he’d meet up with Jonathan and be able to tell him how sorry he was. After that, he didn’t care much. He just wanted to tell Jonathan what it was like to realize evil wasn’t cool, wasn’t fun. It was just cold and horrible, and probably the best thing he’d ever done in his life was give it up for the common good.

But then Anya had died instead, and nothing was right. He’d tried to make himself useful, but no one even seemed to notice.

He knew Buffy and her friends all thought his need to see Spike was based on his need to be one of the “in” people. And sure, that was there, but in a sort of “I’d like to go clubbing with Keanu Reeves” kind of way. His ability to call up demons was pretty much a sonic spork when he was surrounded by Buffy and the Slayers. Willow frankly scared him. Mr. Giles never bothered to notice him unless it was to get him out of the room. Xander reminded him of the guys in high school who liked to throw him into lockers, and he wasn’t sure Faith even knew his name.

And then Spike had talked about liking onion blossoms.

 _Ooh, I love those,_ he’d said, riding on the back of Spike’s Hog, having this moment of connection with pretty much the most wicked guy ever.

 _It's an onion_ , he’d said, _and it's a flower. I don't understand how such a thing is possible._

Looking back on it now, he wasn’t entirely sure why the vampire hadn’t just thrown him off the bike, except, well, onion blossoms were exceptional. And then The Spike had actually talked to him, just like two guys talking at a bar, or something.

_See, the genius of it is you soak it in ice water for an hour so it holds its shape. Then you deep-fry it root-side up for about five minutes._

And then Spike had said, _Tell anyone we had this conversation, I'll bite you._

And how cool was that? Spike himself had called it a conversation, like, everyday stuff.

OK, he knew it wasn’t a big signal on Spike’s Hailing Frequencies, but it meant something, to him at least. After all, they’d both been evil, right? They’d both reformed, both would do anything Buffy said. Both didn’t trust Faith.

And how crazy was it that, as far as he could tell, Spike had been offered whatever he wanted in return for closing the Hellmouth, and he’d become some wild superhero-lover in Buffy’s dreams? It was incredible and epic and just the sort of thing one could expect from Spike, who was just…

You know, _Spike_.

They’d all told him Spike didn’t want to see him, but they didn’t know, they didn’t appreciate what it would mean to talk to him. And surely if he could just talk to him, explain what he needed…

OK, so Spike might kill him, but he should have died already, shouldn’t he? Anya wasn’t supposed to save him like that. Anya had been perfect, one of the genuine Scoobies. It wasn’t right that she was gone and he was still around.

Besides, he just wanted to talk to Spike for a minute or two. It wasn’t a big deal at all. No need for the others to get all mind control about it. And it was totally unfair that Willow had interrupted a perfectly good spell and then smashed his Selenite crystals.

Good thing he’d bought them in bulk. Arizona was lousy with crystals.

Waiting until it was midafternoon and everyone was up and doing something without him, he managed to find an empty room and finish the incantation this time and got to a place at first that made no sense at all. It was sort of a room, but not. Basically, there was nothing. It was kind of comforting but creepsville, like the inside of a nice coffin with a white satin lining with that weird little pillow that a dead person wouldn’t care about. And at first he just stood there, terrified out of his mind for about a dozen reasons.

And then he smelled cigarette smoke.

He raced forward, heart pounding, until he basically stumbled over a platinum-haired vampire with long, black denim-clad legs all sprawled out.

“Bloody hell!”

“Uh, hi, Spike.”

Furious blue eyes glared at him as Spike snapped up to his feet. Ignoring the raised fists, Andrew propelled himself forward, wrapping his arms around the solid strength that smelled like whiskey and more cigarettes.

“I made it,” he sobbed into a leather-clad shoulder (so soft). “I actually made it.”

That Spike didn’t rip his head off he counted as a major positive. Sure, the vampire just sort of stood there like a statue, but everybody tended to do that when he hugged them. He even felt Spike reach over and slap his back a couple times. How cool was that?

Collecting himself, he drew back. Spike did look seriously pissed off, but not murderous.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I know you didn’t want me here, but I just had ask you about something, OK? Just for a few minutes.”

“I had a feeling they wouldn’t be able to keep you out,” Spike growled.

“They totally tried, though. I just, I really need to talk to you.”

Spike shrugged, moving back a couple steps, and then his eyes went to a chair, a rather nice chair, really, kind of old fashioned, and Andrew sat in it, hands on his knees, while Spike leaned back against a nothing wall.

“So, talk.” The vampire went through an awesome routine of lighting a ciggy.

“So, uh, I believe the others have been keeping you in the loop as per our—”

“Get to the bloody point now.”

“Anya!”

Spike waited while Andrew took a minute to realize he had actually jumped forward to the main issue. Amazing what vampire powers could do to mortal man.

“What about her?” Spike looked at him through narrow eyes while he blew out a long stream of smoke. And how appropriate was it that he was wearing the coat? Andrew knew he hadn’t managed to wear one just like it without making a spectacle of himself. And that coat had cost a lot of money. Seriously, it took major mojo to wear the thing. Even the butcher guy had called him on it.

“She died while she was protecting me.”

“Yeah.”

“She was, she was like, wonderful. She was so great.” Andrew moved his feet into a better position under his chair, and then a better one. “She was beautiful with a vulnerable heart and—”

“Still not getting to the point, boy.”

“It isn’t fair!” Andrew took a deep breath, and then another. “It wasn’t right. She wasn’t supposed to do that.”

“Protect you?”

“Die for…well, she didn’t die for me, really, but she died, and I didn’t.”

Spike shrugged and flicked the last of his smoke away in a perfectly cool move that was really an art people didn’t appreciate. “Happens,” he said.

Andrew closed his eyes to concentrate. Spike had to understand this.

“It wasn’t—it shouldn’t have happened that way!”

 He waited, eyes still closed, but Spike didn’t say anything. After an appropriate amount of time, he opened his eyes and looked at the vampire, who was just looking back at him with a blank expression that wasn’t helpful at all.

“She was really great, and better than me, and she made a choice to fight with humans. It should have saved her. And I was, you know, I was atoning for what I did. I was supposed to be killed, and then maybe that would have made things OK. What I did to Jonathan. What I did. If I died it would have made it all good, maybe. And maybe I wouldn’t burn for eternity in hell because I killed my best friend. And now there’s nothing, and she’s dead, and I’m here, and I haven’t got anything to do to help everyone, and I’m just…” He was crying again, and there was no Seal of Danzalthar to make it even remotely useful, so that was just stupid, and he was so totally a girl. Did Spike like to throw people in lockers?

“I’m just this groupie. And Xander’s all with the helping with the slayers, and Giles said I should think about going somewhere else, and Buffy doesn’t care, and there’s…there’s…”

He kept crying then, and Spike was watching him, and this was even worse than with the talking to the First, which had at least looked friendly some of the time. This was just about the worst ever.

_Game over, man. Game over._

“You want to be useful,” Spike said, looking at him with his head held at that really cool angle.

“God, yes.”

“So, is there anything you can do?”

“Is that a quote from _Aliens_?”

Spike actually hissed at him. Seriously, like another second and he’d come at him with fangs.

“I summon demons,” Andrew offered.

“Not really helpful.”

“No.” He looked at his feet. Which were bare. That was weird.

“You use a demon to crash my dreamscape?”

He frowned at the vampire. “No. I just used—”

“I happen to know the crew are short on magic workers. There’s retrieving the Council’s books, finding out about Rhamnousia, trying to figure out how to appease a horde of demons. Seems like they could use a warlock or two.”

“I’m really more about calling up demons who—”

“Oh yeah, that’s right. Calling others up to the stage to do your dirty work, right?”

“Uh, well, not so much with the…yeah, I guess.”

Spike nodded and ran a hand through his hair in a way that really showed off his toned chest in that tight black t-shirt. “Getting others to take the spotlight, right?” Deep blue eyes suddenly pierced him. “Do you remember Jonathan’s spell where he made himself the hero of Sunnydale?”

Andrew had to work through a weird fog in his mind, but he nodded. “Yeah. Sort of.”

“You see, that was Jonathan. Wanted to be admired, and he could take it when he got it. Now, Warren, he was an outright tosser. Hated people who were better than he was, hated not being able to control people. Probably born a creeper rapist arsehole, even if it took him a while to come into it. I should know. Had him build me a robot once that was pretty much one step away from it myself.

“Thing was, I figured it out.” Spike reached for another smoke and went through that cool ritual with the lighter again. “Took me a while, and remember I’m a vampire, right? But I thought the idea was to have a substitute that wouldn’t hurt anyone, something to call my own that no one would mind. But the thing of it is, I wasn’t living in a vacuum somewhere, was I? I was talking with and being around the people I was using for my own enjoyment. That’s what made it not OK. The ‘bot was just a machine, but what it meant to other people, that’s what made it wrong.”

Spike shook his head, breathing in smoke and letting it out. “That’s what that Warren bloke didn’t get. He only knew his little love ‘bot didn’t suit him. That’s why he could make another one for me and think I’d be happy with it, not that I gave him much choice. But it never occurred to him what it meant to have a real woman in his life.”

Andrew felt his whole body flush and tremble at the thought of Katrina. He really didn’t want to think about her, but it made sense that he had to. Having her for a sex slave had been a fantasy, but then when she’d woken up and told them what they were really doing, he’d wanted to throw up, wanted to run and hide. And then when Warren had killed her, he’d just felt like someone shoved a freezer full of ice inside him. And he hadn’t really gotten the ice out until Buffy had told him he was going to die.

“I’m so sorry,” his whispered now. “I didn’t realize.”

“Well, there’s something we’ve got in common, then,” Spike said, which couldn’t have surprised him more if he’d delivered the line in drag. “But then I did realize, and I did better, didn’t I?”

“I did too! When I think about what I did, I can’t stand it.”

“So, what? Dying in battle was a way to stop thinking about what an appalling wanker you’d been?”

“I just wanted.” He tried to get his thoughts together. “I just wanted to do something to prove I was sorry.”

Spike laughed, flicking away another burnt-out end. “The world’s not that nice about it, demon-caller. You’re sorry you’re still alive? Probably means you’ll live to be a hundred. Unless you get over it, and then five minutes later you’ll be hit by a lorry.”

“That sucks!”

“That’s life, little boy. You feel useless? Figure out something you can do to help, whether it’s something you like to do or not, and then do it.”

“I—I could help with the books thing, I think.”

“Then do it. Go to the white witch and kiss her feet and beg her to let you help. Then go to Xander and help him unclog loos and replace the soddin’ windows. Polish Giles’ glasses. Make some bleedin’ pancakes for the army of teenaged slayers. Mow the lawn and wash the bloody dishes. You want to be useful, you barmy prat? Be of use!”

“Oh, my God!”

Spike scowled at him, dark brows halfway down his noble nose.

“I knew you’d be like one of those monks on the mountain top!”

“What the hell—”

“Or Yoda! Or Obi-wan. No! You’re The Ancient One! I knew it! I knew you’d help me.” And Andrew rushed him again, gathering up the toned strength of Buffy’s lover in his arms and openly weeping on his soft, leather-clad shoulder. “I knew you’d help me.”

“Get off me!” Spike roared. But the boy was gone before he could shove the little twit away, and he was alone in the nothing room again. The vampire shook himself down from head to toe, smoothing out his shirt and raking back his hair. “God. Can’t the little knee-biter just realize he’s gay already?”

Buffy popped in while he was still shaking it off, and he hated the look of apology in her eyes.

“Willow really tried to keep him out, but—”

“Don’t worry about it, pet. And tell Red it’s OK. Turns out he did need some talking to. And maybe, I don’t know, cut him a little slack, next time, right?”

“Andrew?”

“Turns out we have more in common than I really ever want to think about.”

Buffy stated at him a moment, then smiled gently. “Pushover.”

“But if he ever comes back here—”

She put up her hands. “It’s not like Willow let him in. We can keep him out unless he goes through all that again.”

“All what again?”

She laughed, walking up to him, and then leaned into his chest in a way that felt like heaven on tap.

“He had, like, a hundred crystals, and more candles than that. He could have set up a shop.”

“He wants to help.” Spike brought up a hand and cupped her breast just because he could. And she didn’t pull away. What a warm handful. His fingertips sought her pert little nipple.

“Sure.” She turned and nuzzled into his chest, then found one of his own nipples with her lips, sucking just slightly.

Vaguely recognizing the Club Med room around them now, Spike scooped her up and laid her back on the bed, ripping off some flimsy blue skirt and even flimsier panties.

“In me,” she moaned, stripping off her top and bra.

“In a minute,” he answered, leaning down to bury his face between her sweet white thighs. God, the taste of her. If they could make a lozenge with this taste, vampires of the world would spend their bleeding life savings on a lifetime’s supply. Which thought made him jealous, and he dug deeper into her heat, licking up and inside and over and around. She clenched, and there was even more moisture there for him to lick up.

And all the while, her little clit was waiting like a wallflower. He smiled and sucked it inside his mouth, flicking it with his tongue, applying pressure and motion as she began to thrash about beneath him. He felt her muscles ripple, smelled her scent, and heard her gasp and moan his name. His tongue sought out more, digging as deeply as he could and glad he didn’t have to breathe.

She screamed then, a honest bellow from the gut, and what joy could top that? He’d made the Slayer scream, just him. His hands were at her hips, holding her up, and she roiled up and against him like a dance move, like an insistent bitch who wanted everything of him. God, he wanted to give her everything.

“In me,” she gasped out. And when he nodded his nose rubbed her clit. Oh God. If he could wish it, he’d just be a thing she brought out of a drawer to fuck herself with.

But no. That wasn’t right. He’d been that, actually, and it had been awful. But that was over.  
            “I love you, Buffy,” he said into the core of her.

And when she spoke back, her voice fell about his heads like the chimes of church bells.

“Love you, Spike. Love you forever. Love you long after we’re both dust and history.”

His tongue flittered against her clit, and she came again before half-sitting up, commanding, “In me, William the Spike Bloody Pratt. In me now.”

With one move, and not even one he’d planned or rehearsed, his lips were up and pressing against hers, and the aching flesh of his body was deep and being soothed in the wet heat he’d tasted. She really would burn him up one day, but who cared? This felt better than anything even as he sought the pleasure of her again and again, thrusting ever deeper inside the goddess who allowed it, who somehow bloody wanted it.

The goddess who wanted him.

He probably came a little sooner than he should have, but she was screaming and gripping and moaning all around him, so it was probably OK. And then for a long, deep while, it was just armfuls of his Slayer and her scent and her warmth, and she loved him.

To his everlasting relief, when he woke he wasn’t in the nothing room. He didn’t know if he could handle an empty space beside him now, especially if the Scoobies had scheduled another meeting.

But no, they were still in the room of white walls and French doors that opened onto a beach view. It really was quite lovely, the way the white gauze curtains billowed in the ocean breeze.

“You see this in a movie, or something?” he asked, not really caring if the woman in his arms answered.

“Magazine,” she mumbled, not moving her face from where it was smushed into his chest. She squeezed him with her thin, steely, warm arms, and then moved slightly, resting her cheek against his shoulder and settling herself all along his side like a blanket. “Looked like paradise.”

“Was that in _Tiger Beat_ or _Seventeen_?”

She treated him to a sleepy snarl that got him pitching a tent in the sheets in about a half-second.

“Really,” she muttered. “Were you like this when you weren’t a dream?”

He kissed her hair. “Like what?”

“Mr. Insta-Hard?”

He laughed. “Pretty much. Vampire stamina.”

“How do you get hard, anyway?”

“Well, I think of you—”

“No, I mean.” She shuffled around a bit, looking up at him with those God-lovely green jade eyes. They were hazel in some lights, he’d noticed, but jade now. “You have no circulation. So, is it magic?”

“What’s that, pet?”

“Do you have a magical penis?”

For several seconds, he actually tried to come up with an answer, and then their eyes met, and she was shaking and honking with laughter, and he wasn’t far behind. And it was even worse when they quieted down for a moment because then they looked at each other and exploded into laughter once more, and it was a seriously good long while before the giggling finally went away.

“Oh no,” Spike eventually groaned.

She snorted, and it was both totally unladylike and completely adorable. “What?”

“I’m going to laugh every time I pop one now.”

She laughed until he joined in again.

“Magical penis,” she snickered.

“Seriously. Stop it.”

She smiled up, meeting his eyes. Then slowly, deliberately, leaned down and licked his right pectoral muscle. He was, of course, instantly harder. And then she rose up, all beach-volleyball skin and golden hair and as smug as a Greek goddess, and then she sat back against and down him, her hand there to guide him inside.

“I love you,” she said, now a Greek bloody chorus while her body took him.

“Yes,” he whispered more than a little helplessly. “Please.”

“You’re everything I want, and you’re all inside me.”

He thought about fat old guys playing cricket. He thought about Maggie Thatcher and Janet Reno having tea poolside. He thought about Clem eating a whole bag of Cool Ranch Doritos without a napkin.

 Buffy moaned, arching back, taking him more fully inside.

He thought about holy water and garlic. He thought about...about…

“Buffy!” he screamed, losing himself so deeply into her body he couldn’t measure it, or himself, or them. He let himself think about what it meant that she loved him and started coming.

“God,” he groaned. “It’s like slayer blood down my throat.”

She seized up, rippling, and it was sweet and nasty and pure, and he just bloody came and came.

They lay there together, recovering and trading kisses, until she told him with sweet reluctance that she could tell she was waking up. He kissed her goodbye and shared in her smile before she faded away.

A few smokes spent contemplating eternity in the nothing room, and he eventually found himself back in the library/movie room, boots on the desk, a dream-copy of _Slayers of Age_ open on his lap, talking into a large blue grounding crystal.

“ _And so was called Oyan in her sixteenth year, who lost her first watcher to the black and green skin at nineteen and to a disease that wracked the body of her second watcher with ague at twenty-three._ ”

“The black and green skin?” the crystal asked, its glow wavering at the confusion in Andrew’s voice.

“I’m thinking gangrene, demon-boy. No clue what the disease was.”

“Right. OK. I’ve typed that in.”

Spike nodded and took back up with the narrative, not paying much attention to the words. He’d already read through this part, marking some pages he’d want to skip over. Didn’t fancy getting the youngster all hot and bothered. Too much like phone sex. The witch could do those bits on her own.

“Wait,” Andrew said through the crystal. “You just said an Old One contacted her.”

He looked back up the text a half-line. “Yeah.”

“Well, aren’t we, you know, in the really old past already?”

Spike rolled his eyes and got out a fag. “‘Old Ones’ refers to demons who were here long before humans were rodents.

“Like Lorien?”

“Please, do not tell me what that is or what comic book it came from.”

“ _Babylon 5_ wasn’t a—”

“I said not to tell me.” He blew a stream of smoke at the crystal and wished Tiny Tim could choke on it at least a little. “The Old Ones were the bloody dinosaurs of demons, all right? They’ve all gone off to other dimensions, but they come back from time to time. The slayer Oyan got one on her side, which meant she had the most powerful force available to take on the—” He scanned down a bit. “Legion horde of the Reborn. Think nuclear weapon with scaly bits, all right?”

“Hm.”

Spike waited, staring at the crystal. “Wait. Are you typing that?”

“Er, yes. Giles said to record your textual commentary in a separate file.”

“My bleedin’ what?”

“Your commentary. Your translator’s notes. They’re very helpful.”

Spike rolled his eyes.

“Speaking of, how is it you know so much, anyway? I mean, I know you’re a master vampire and all, but you haven’t even been around for two centuries, and you know more than Angel about all this stuff.”

“What would you know about Angelus?”

“Well, Willow and Giles have both called him to ask him questions, and he’s not really had much to say. But you just—”

“Look, it’s not a great mystery. While Peaches was eating rats and drooling on his soggy pants for a century, I actually cracked a book or two.”

“There are books for vampires?”

“What, you think the wankers were the only ones with a library?”

“Well, yeah.”

Spike snorted and crushed out his butt on the table. He’d gotten a lovely little array of scorch marks now.

“So there’s a council of vampires that watches over a library?”

“No. There’re just books. The older vampires tend to be collectors. I made nice with some of the geriatric set and read a few things. Besides, you get a group of demons together around a poker table, it’s the history of so-and-so and the battle of such-and-such all night long. You gotta account for the embellishments and the whole ‘I saw mankind discover fire’ rot, sure. But otherwise it’s a good oral history any night of the week. Now, do you mind if we get back to our soddin’ homework?”

“Oh, yes. Of course. ‘ _And so the slayer Oyan impressed the Old One with her prowess in battle, and he contacted her through the Orb of M’bar_ …’”

Spike nodded and opened his mouth, only to hear the crystal ask, “What’s the Orb of M’bar?”

Hours and bloody centuries later, Buffy finally showed up, decked out in a hot red-and-black leather number that threatened to drop his fangs with its tight fit alone. Spike snapped the book shut, tossed it on the table, and closed the sputtering Andrew-crystal into a little box Willow had provided, completely cutting him off.

“You like?” she asked, putting a hand on a barely covered hip.

“No one told me it was my birthday.” He reached for her, drew her close, scented her, and then reeled at the strength of it. Despite her personal dislike for it, she’d skipped her shower after her last workout, as he’d begged her to do one or a dozen times.

“Magic,” she mumbled into his neck, pressing against the bulge in his jeans and shivering. “And no, not your birthday. When is your birthday, anyway?”

“Who cares? And so what’s with the present, luv?” He slid a hand up her skirt and grasped the swell of flesh there, a perfect weight in his hand.

“You’ve just been so _good_ , Spike. And no, before you even go there, I don’t mean like a pet or something.” She leaned back, looking into his soul and demon all at once. That particular gaze of hers, it was almost better than a shag. Almost.

“You have no idea what it means to me.” Her eyes dropped then, and she blushed slightly. “Rubbing their noses in it, I guess, which makes me not so much with the nice person, but I don’t care.”

“Slayer?”

“Everyone doubted me, over and over, when I tried to explain how valuable you were, how much we needed you. Even you closing the Hellmouth, killing yourself to save us all, it wasn’t enough for them.” She looked up again, and he was pinned and wriggling on the wall and loving every minute of it. “And now every five minutes you give us something invaluable, and I get to watch them realize…” She flushed and looked down again. “It’s really not very nice.”

“That’s why I’m loving it, Slayer. What do they realize? That you were right and they were a bunch of bloody idiots for doubting you for a second?”

She leaned into his chest, her lips moving against his short a little as she admitted, “Yes.”

“Well, I’m personally not getting why they didn’t understand  what I could do for them and the cause, but whatever. And I don’t care, except that you care. I’ll do whatever I can, you know that, because of what you told me, what means everything to me.”

“That I believed in you?” she asked his chest.

“God, yes.”

“I still do. More than ever now.”

“I believe in you too, you know, for what it’s worth. Did even back when I was trying to kill you. Fact was, that’s why I was trying to kill you.”

She kissed the area over his dormant heart and then reached up to nuzzle his neck. When he reached for her skirt, however, she stilled him with gentle hands on his forearms.

“Wait. I actually made some plans here.”

He chuckled, willing to wait if it made her happy, for all that he just wanted to watch her come for a bit.

She backed up a little and shot him a mischievous grin. “I did some research.”

“So you’ve made us a reservation?”

“Something like that.”

He nodded and loosed his control, letting the world fade and shift around him a bit. But it was hearing that came online first, with the raucous chords and Rotten’s vocals.

_God save the Queen,_

_The fascist regime._

_They made you a moron,_

_A potential H-bomb._

_God save the Queen._

_She ain't no human being._

_There is no future._

_And England's dreaming._

And they were in a bloody (in more ways than one) mosh pit, and Buffy was slugging some wanker who’d tried to cop a feel under the guise of slamming. The git went down, and no one cared, too caught up in music and booze and probably quite a lot of drugs. Then she smirked at him and jumped up and down to the beat, slamming into him and then into some random biker chick, and it was all glorious.

Throwing his head back, he howled into the din and felt the music all the way down to his bones. Christ. This was The Best. Music. Ever.

Hours went by, and he bashed in the face of more than one poof who’d tried to rub against him. Buffy had bloody knuckles and a permanent grin on her face, and he was plain knackered from the beat and the power even before Sid took the mike in the encore:

_For what is a prat, what has he got?_

_When he wears hats and he cannot_

_Say the things he truly feels?_

_But only the words, of one who kneels?_

_The record shows_

_I fucked a bloke_

_And did it my way!_

Buffy laughed at that, catching his eye right before she did a backflip that kept her out of the reach of some wanker’s thrashing arms. Damn, there were a lot of a safety pins in that ugly mug.

A basic full-blown riot erupted on the floor after that. With a whoop and a leap, he grabbed her hand before they ran out of the club into some late ‘70s street that could have been London or New York or sodding Liverpool for all he cared. And Buffy was laughing and running ahead of him now until they found some dark wall and shagged up against it like the world was on fire.

Back in the nothing room, he thought up a bed and threw himself on it to sleep like the dead, too tired even for irony.

When he woke up, it was weird, but he was hungry. A huge mug of otter’s blood helped, and then, what the hell, a large pizza with pretty much everything on it. He had some Jack with the pie, and then he just took a nap.

It was odd, more than odd. He wanted Buffy with him as much as ever, more even, but somehow it was OK to go for a while without her. He trusted she’d be there for him when they met back up, and he’d do something for her, and she’d let him—no, she’d want him—inside her hot, perfect body. Somehow just knowing that he could be with her when he wanted to meant he could lie there for a couple hours and not feel like he was dying of frustration.

Death. It was a strange concept for a vampire. Conquering death, remembering what it felt to have your life’s blood drain away and then to come back from that, fueled the bloodlust of most fledglings when they came out of the ground. The body (minus the soul) remembered being afraid of death from the first infant breath, and then suddenly there was this knowledge that you just might live forever, and screw anyone who said otherwise. It was a hell of a rush.

Even the stupidest, rawest, most clueless fledge felt it. That first breath that wasn’t really needed but felt good: it told a vampire all they needed to know. Death was no longer breathing down your neck, waiting around the corner.

Sure, you could still die. That’s what slayers were all about, not to mention anyone who’d learned from bloody showboating Dracula that a stake through the heart or being shoved into the sunlight meant being dust. But you didn’t actually have to die if you took precautions. You had no real expiration date, not like before.

And then there was the whole sense of purpose. You went from having all these worries and responsibilities to basically just furthering the cause of violence. You woke up with your objectives firmly in place, and all of them were delicious.

And for all that he’d given up such pursuits to please Buffy, it wasn’t until the soul that he’d really seen what an empty, pointless waste the whole vampire gig really was. The comparison to being a junkie was inevitable. It felt great, sure, long as you didn’t have to face up to being a gormless parasite.

Still, it was bloody difficult sometimes to figure out just how he felt about some things. Take trying to kill Willow, for instance. In her dorm room, knowing she was his for the taking, he’d actually wanted to get the killing part out of the way ASAP. He’d liked her, even then, and though she wasn’t in a position to appreciate it, he’d given her the greatest compliment a vampire could give, offering to make her not just a minion, but a vampire like himself. He figured with her magic and spunk she’d reach master vampire status in record time.

And sure, he’d planned to use her to torment the Slayer a bit—still brassed off believing she’d worked with the commandos to capture him. But turning someone like that was basically saying, “Hey, I want to spend eternity with you around in it because it will make the whole thing more fun.”

And now, he guessed he was supposed to be all penitent about it, but the truth was he couldn’t manage it. Willow would have made a spectacular vampire. If things had worked out the way he planned them at the time, he’d have spent eternity bragging about being her sire. He might never have had to pay for another drink again.

So yeah, of course, he was glad the chip had stopped him, glad Willow was still alive and free to chase all the birds she liked. But he’d meant well at the time, sort of. Enough so that he could leave brooding over it to the Poof.

All his real regrets centered around two things: the times he had killed people and the times he’d hurt Buffy. There was bugger-all he could do about the former, but he’d been given a chance to make up at least some for the latter.

And with that thought he was out of bed, thinking himself up a nice fresh set of black and red clothes and tossing his coat around his shoulders.

Back in the library and seeing Buffy standing by the table in jeans and a t-shirt, he figured it was time for another meeting. But when she turned to him he was already smelling the tears in her eyes.

In a second, he was holding her. Wearily, she dropped her head to his shoulder and slipped her hands under his coat to hold him back.

“Buffy.”

“We lost Eliza.”

He nodded, kissing her hair, to show he had heard, but he didn’t say anything.

“She wasn’t even on patrol, and it was in the afternoon. Not even cloudy, and some shapeless thing just rushed through her. Rona couldn’t see well, couldn’t really tell what happened, but when she reached Eliza it was gone, and she was dead.”

“Cause of death other than ‘by blur’?”

“Nothing we can tell. There’s no mark on the body. She’s just gone.”

He tried to think of a demon to fit the bill, but there just wasn’t enough detail. Lots of things were “shapeless” when they were moving, and lots of things killed without leaving a mark.

“Least it probably wasn’t Rhamnousia.”

Buffy nodded, still leaning against him. “Eliza didn’t have a snobby bone in her body.” She sniffed. “She was nice and smart.”

“Buffy, I’m—”

She reached up and kissed him, and he’d gotten to know her kisses well enough (now that they weren’t always desperate and full of self-loathing) to know it was about comfort and not about leading to anything horizontal. So he relaxed into it, letting her feel how much he loved her and was there for her without making any moves to heat things up.

After a while, she pulled back, kissed him again, and then nodded at the box holding the grounding crystal.

“I asked them to give us a minute.”

“Another meeting, then?”

“Willow and Giles think they have figured out how to contact Prometheus.”

“And they want to do it here?”

Buffy nodded, looking around. “Willow says being here actually facilitates magic, and Giles says being in a dream state will make it easier to access the higher dimensions.” She looked at him pointedly. “And I said we would be happy about it.”

Spike put his hands up. “Not planning to jeopardize my whole ‘being good’ routine, am I?”

She laughed, delighting him, then shot him one of those cheeky little grins she was so good at. “Last night was fun.”

“Brilliant,” he agreed, leaning forward for a bit more of her curling lips when a familiar _pop-pop-pop-pop_ told him to apply the brakes.

“Soddin’ hell, Red. You got a big enough candle there?”

The witch looked at the pillar of white wax—beeswax from the smell of it—that was almost as tall as she was and a good ten inches in diameter.

“Several sources suggest a large and expensive fire will remind Prometheus of his previous benevolence to mankind,” Giles said, helping Will move the candle to what was evidently a better position next to the table.

“Also might remind him of being chained to a bloody rock and getting his liver eaten out.”

“He was rescued by Hercules,” Red said with defensive eyes. “Who’s half-human.”

“I’m just saying, the god has issues.”

“Look, this is all dream stuff here, though we really—well, Daniel really did buy the candle. He’s got it lit in the waking world. Speaking of…” She looked at the candle and whispered, “ _Igne_.”

The candle’s glow was right pretty, he’d give the witch that. And with the beeswax, there wasn’t much smoke, which made it look, well, expensive.

Next, the witch indicated where everyone should sit around the table, which had become smaller so they could all hold hands. Seeing as Buffy was to his right and Dawn to his left, he didn’t complain. In fact, when Dawn gave his fingers a nervous squeeze, he shot her a smile that seemed to ease her muscles a bit.

“Any new blokes in your life?” he asked her.

Dawn looked confused.

“Really, Spike. This is not the time,” the Watcher said, of course. Seriously, you could set your watch by the blighter.

Willow set out a few crystals, then some wormwood, mugwart, alyssum, and meadow rue, and then chanted about beseeching the great and powerful and offering up their humble request and some other rot to attract a god’s attention. Spike pretty much tuned out until suddenly Willow’s hair went white, her head rocked back, and a sort of moan that shook the rafters came out. A rather raucous wind blew through the room as well, chilling him even through his coat.

“ _Who calls me?_ ” demanded an extremely masculine and pissed-off voice.

“We do,” Giles said, voice firm. “We call on you as a family to discuss family.”

“ _The concerns of mankind are far behind me_ ,” the voice said while Willow just stared at the ceiling with her eyes open. “ _I gave you what I could. That time is ended_.”

“We call on you for more than mankind,” Giles said, raising his voice against the wind, which increased. “The balance is—”

“ _Your folly_.”

Giles was shouting now. “We had to defeat the First!”

The answer was a sort of odd rumble through the room. And then all the lighting in the library just exploded and the big phallic candle went out, and they were all sitting in the dark, and it was as quiet as a high-end grave.

Spike pulled out his lighter and struck it, looking at the Slayer in the meager light and making sure she was OK.

“ _Igne_ ,” the watch said again, and the large candle illuminated enough for them to realize Spike’s collection of table-top scorch marks had multiplied.

He had to stand up and cock his head to see it, but the writing on the varnished surface was plain enough then.

 _She walks among you_.

 

**THE WARLOCK**

Daniel Tinto adjusted to a major round of disorientation and managed not to drop the armful of videotapes he was holding when he was in a sort of version of the nearest branch of Phoenix’ public library. When he looked around, however, he saw soft-looking sofas and a large TV he knew didn’t belong, and the light through the windows was somehow daylight but not, as though something were being filtered out. And there were mostly empty bowls of popcorn and soda cans everywhere.

“Let me guess,” a rich voice with a British accent said from behind him. He spun around to see what could only be the vampire he’d been told about. “You’re Mrs. Runs with Fur.”

“Daniel Tinto,” he said, making his voice as flat as possible.

_Why didn’t anyone warn me how fantastically gorgeous this guy is?_

Seriously, he’d been anticipating some sort of Dracula guy, and instead he was staring at a punker with bleached hair, sculptured cheekbones, and a body that would not quit on a federal holiday. Seriously, if he didn’t love Michael to the last breath of his body, he would totally break out the booze and see if the vampire might be a three-beer queer.

And then rather wise blue eyes looked into his, well aware of what he was thinking. But instead of snarling or thumping his manly chest, the vampire just shrugged slightly, like it was all to be expected, and Daniel found himself laughing.

“So what’s on the tapes?” the vampire asked.

“Everyone in the current organization. Everyone who might—” He nodded at the writing on the table. “Walk among us.”

“And what’s the current number of slayers?”

“Fifty-one, not including Buffy and Faith.”

Spike nodded. “I think we can safety conclude neither the Slayer nor Doe Eyes is Rhamnousia.” Daniel watched as the vampire went through a little ritual of patting down his pockets, coming up with a cigarette, and lighting it. With a thought that confirmed Willow’s claim that magic was much easier to practice here, the smell of smoke turned into the pleasing aroma of bergamot.

“We can also eliminate the potentials from the first group, I’m thinking, especially since most of them died.”

Spike nodded while Daniel set the tapes down on the table, and then shrugged. “Maybe just put them on the back burner. I’m thinking we definitely want to look at the slayers, as well as anyone else who showed up later, as long as they’re women.”

“Women?”

“Look, mate. Rhamnousia can be anyone or any damn thing she wants, as long it’s appropriate.”

“Appropriate?”

“Well, yeah. I mean, all those of Greek persuasion, they have to make with the metaphors and all that, which helps not a bit. I mean, she could decide to be a rock—or, bollocks, rocks don’t walk, so let’s say a lizard. And then later we find out there’s something about lizards and her brand of justice that only makes sense in hindsight. However, it would be a female lizard.”

Daniel looked at him squarely. “Something tells me you’re just trying to get out of watching all these tapes.”

Spike shrugged and looked pretty wicked doing it. “Right. Ya caught me. Let’s settle in.”

A few minutes later, Daniel sat himself on a nice blue couch while Spike sprawled out on a red one, though no popcorn seemed in the offering. They watched Andrew’s random films of all the slayers, Daniel’s staff, and what he’d learned to think of as the “Scoobies.”

About an hour into it, they were watching Andrew’s video of last night’s dinner, which was really quite the ordeal considering about sixty people were involved, moving in and out of frame while Daniel’s cook filled plate after plate of food.

“That’s one substantial kitchen you’ve got there, mate.”

“In 2001 I hosted a meeting of second-order demons of the Jhadfi Clan.”

“Better you than me.”

“We finished with an agreement not to kill a thousand virgins for the summoning of the Haridan.”

“In exchange for?”

“Protection against the Haridan, should anyone ever summon it.”

Spike laughed.

“I’m just saying,” Kennedy said on the tape while she shoveled noodles into her mouth, “it seems like a pretty sweet deal.” She looked around with disfavor at the teenage girls walking past her barstool. She and a few others had commandeered the kitchen island, while the others wandered back out to the main dining room. Although there was room for two more, no one made a move toward the empty stools.

“You do remember Spike’s dead, right?” Rona asked, sitting across from her.

“Well, is he?” Vi asked back, sitting to Rona’s right.

Daniel had already noticed the slayers tended to stick with their own wave, the groups that arrived close together tending to stay together. There was an especially strong bond between what was left of the first group of “potentials,” and he couldn’t help being reminded of the cool kids’ table at high school, especially because pretty much all of the slayers belonged in high school.

“He’s not here,” Rona said. “And he can’t be here.”

“Yeah, but he’s in a dream, right?” Vi twirled her noodles around and didn’t eat, like she wasn’t thin enough already. He’d have to see if Michael could come up with something to tempt her. His husband was a fantastic cook.

“And from what little the inner circle has said,” Vi continued, “it sounds like he’s basically all-powerful in dream land.”

“But it’s just dreams,” Rona said.

“Who cares?” Kennedy asked. “When you’re in a dream it feels as real as everything else.”

“Once upon a time,” said the Japanese slayer Masako as she paused by the table, a plate of steaming food in her hands, “ I, Chuang Chou, dreamt I was a butterfly, fluttering hither and thither, to all intents and purposes a butterfly. I was conscious only of my happiness as a butterfly, unaware that I was Chou. Soon I awoke, and there I was, veritably myself again. Now I do not know whether I were then a man dreaming I was a butterfly, or whether I am now a butterfly, dreaming I am a man.”

“I’m not a damn butterfly,” Kennedy said, missing the point. What a surprise. He knew she and Willow, who was absolutely lovely, were an item, but Michael had declared her “intolerable,” and most of the other slayers, even while obeying her boot-camp orders, didn’t seem to like her much.

“Yep,” Spike muttered from the neighboring couch while Masako did a little bow and walked out of frame. “I figure she might be Rhamnousia’s first target.”

“Is there no difference between being cocky and hubris?”

To his surprise, which wasn’t fair, Spike seemed to think that over as they watched the girls bicker half-heartedly about butterflies and the show _King Fu_ , on which evidently the butterfly story had been featured.

“A favorite of mine,” Daniel said, enjoying the citrusy smoke from Spike’s latest cigarette. “David Carradine was perfect. Hey did you see the _Kung Fu_ parody they did with him on _Saturday Night Live_?”

The vampire beside him froze, his eyes turning with a look of surprise that flicked over to suspicion.

“Can’t say I did, mate.”

 _Odd thing to lie about_.

“Look, did you just do a spell?”

“Well, I really don’t like the odor of cigarettes.”

“I’m not talking about the way I suddenly smell like a vat of earl grey, Warlock.”

“What? The _Kung Fu_ thing?”

Blue (thrilling) eyes turned away from him while the vampire muttered something about how it wasn’t important.

Daniel looked back at the screen, which was showing breakfast now. Dawn was at the stove and again attempting, sadly, to make pancakes. There was no sign of the cook, so this had to be before 7 a.m. The images dipped and swirled for a moment, and then Dawn was evidently handling the camera while Andrew took over at the stove, pouring in the batter with special care and keeping an eye on the burner.

Spike snorted. “See, that’s it, right?”

“What’s it?”

“I’ve just had enough with the hand-holding and Kumbaya nonsense for a bloody long while. Came up with this scenario so I could be with the Slayer, and now I’m spending more time with her friends than I am with her.” Spike laughed then. “‘Course, it’s always been that way, hasn’t it?”

Daniel just made a soft “I’m listening” noise.

“Slayers fight alone, and the two I killed, they were as alone as you could imagine. Even worse for them, they’d gotten lonely. So I here I go into Sunnydale thinking I’ll add another slayer to the list, and she’s surrounded by family and friends. Her mother came at me with a bloody ax!

“It’s like I told Adam—oh, this patchwork-demon-thing that was trying to kill them and take over the town—you wanna get the slayer, you got to take her away from her friends. And I did too, mighty fine job, actually. And then the second my back was turned they were sharing group hugs and doing each other’s nails. In fact, just to rub my nose in it, they did this spell to destroy Adam where they all became one person inside the Slayer. With all their strength combined, she just walked over to Frankenstein and ripped his bloody batteries out.”

Daniel just nodded this time. He doubted Spike even noticed.

“And now here I am, all set up to have her to myself forever, and I’m translating _Lady Chatterley’s Warrior Lovers_ into a crystal and watching films of teenaged girl cliques while she’s off—where is she, anyway?”

“She has the best fighters out in patrols to find the demon that killed Eliza. She and Faith are both leading teams.”

“Oh, good.” He shook his head. “Anyway, this isn’t what I signed up for.”

“No, I imagine it’s a thousand times better.”

Spike shot him a narrow-eyed look.

“As I understand it, the original deal was that you’d be this guy she got to have adventures with in her dreams. Instead, you’ve basically put yourself back into the position you had before.”

Spike’s eyes got downright icy. “And what’s that when it’s at home?”

“The most powerful weapon in her arsenal.”

Spike was looking at him suspiciously. “Can’t watch her back from here.”

“No, but she’s got fifty slayers and the rest to do that. You’re the only one to give her all this.” He waved generally at the dreamscape. “And it’s a hell of an advantage.”

Spike looked pleased about that, then frowned, as though not wanting to give away how pleased he was, then pointedly looked back at the video of Dawn sitting at the kitchen island drowning a golden-brown pancake in syrup. Another slayer, Ophuna, entered frame, looked at the pancake in Andrew’s skillet and went to get a plate. He wondered who was holding the camera, but the frame never moved, so he figured it was on its tripod.

“That’s the Nigerian slayer, right?”

“Yes. We’re still, er, helping her to find her best strengths.”

Spike snorted at his attempt at tact, though honestly he’d done his best. The seventeen-year-old had so far seemed decidedly un-slayerish. And he was pretty sure she was bulimic.

“The parody they did on _Carol Burnett_ was better,” Spike mumbled while the slayer took her breakfast out of the room.

Daniel had learned enough to mute his laughter, but he couldn’t help quoting, “‘The last three girls I brought here drowned.’”

 Spike gave an amused grunt and flicked away his cigarette butt. Daniel watched curiously as it bounced and rolled across the floor, and then disappeared.

Violet, lovely girl, came into the frame, wearing a robe over her purple PJs.

“Pancake, my lady?” Andrew asked, strangely happy, Daniel thought, considering he hadn’t gotten to eat one himself yet.

“Please,” Vi said, then shuffled over to a stool across the island from Dawn. She poured a glass of milk from the pitcher there and settled down. Daniel made a mental note that the girls liked whole milk more than low fat.

“Morning,” Dawn said.

“So, how’d it go, then?” Vi asked.

Dawn shrugged. “Good. Creepy as anything, but good.”

“You actually made contact with Prometheus.”

Dawn nodded, looking a little uncomfortable.

Andrew turned from the stove with a plate of pancake and set it down before Vi, making no show of not listening avidly to their conversation.

“So, tell us. What did he say?”

“I don’t think…” Dawn shrugged again, hunching slightly. “I think that’s for Buffy to tell you.”

“Oh, right.” Vi leaned back a little, clearly indicating, to Dawn’s obvious relief, that the matter was settled. “Thanks, Andrew.”

“My pleasure,” he said with a smile. “And, Dawn, I’m sure you’re right, you know, about waiting for Buffy.”

Vi nodded, looking glum while she reached for the butter. “We all learned that lesson.” She sighed. “Amanda was right.”

Andrew nodded, but Dawn looked clueless.

“Amanda?”

“She said we were punished for, you know, not following Buffy that time. For walking into that trap with Faith.”

Andrew nodded again, gazing down. “‘The traitor is hanged by the neck, then cut down alive, that his entrails are then taken out, and burned, while he is yet alive.’”

The girls turned to stare at him until he blushed and shrugged, hands going into his pockets.

“Just saying.”

Dawn shook her head and ran her fork around the crumbs and syrup on her plate. “I think back, I mean, I remember those last few days, and nothing makes any sense. I just know I was so angry, I guess because being angry was better than being scared. I was angry at Spike, angry at Faith, and Giles, and even Buffy, which is totally stupid. But I just thought, I’d gotten so used to having her protect me, I was actually angry that she couldn’t make me stop being scared.”

“Aw, bit,” Spike murmured, evidently without noticing he’d spoken, until he realized Daniel had paused the tape and was looking at him.

“You sound like you’re not furious at her about that, which is pretty much the opposite of what I heard.”

“They tell you about that night?”

“You calling them all traitors and punching Faith a few times before storming out? Not a word.”

Spike snorted, reached for his pack, and then gave it up with an irritated look. “It was good for Buffy.”

“What?”

“Regardless that they were a bunch of bloody pillocks that, if you ask me, deserved to be punished more than they were, ultimately the Slayer saw what happened when she wasn’t there to give the orders.”

The vampire sat up a bit. “It was killing her, you know. ‘I give the order and some girl dies.’ She really couldn’t see that she wasn’t some harbinger of death, that she was the one keeping the numbers down. So she lets Faith take the wheel, and we lose half a dozen potentials in thirty seconds. Would have lost them all if the Slayer hadn’t shown up with her shiny red scythe and made like the cavalry. I think that’s when she got it. When you’re the shield and something gets through, it’s awful. And she had to feel that, didn’t she? But she still needed to realize she wasn’t the one pulling the trigger.”

Daniel studied the regretful people frozen on the screen.

“You mind if I tell Dawn that? This isn’t the first time I’ve seen her talk about that. It’s obvious she feels horrible about it.”

Spike shrugged. “If you think it will make the Niblet feel better, knock yourself out. But not the others. Let ‘em suffer all they can.”

Daniel laughed, feeling vaguely guilty but not caring too much about it. Spike seemed to have that effect.

He got the tape going again, only then realizing the remote had just popped into his hand when he wanted it. Maybe magic was a little too easy in this place.

On screen, Dawn politely refused Andrew’s offer of another pancake, nodded to the others, and said she wanted to take a shower. Vi nibbled at her breakfast as Andrew went back to the stove, turned off the burner, and then cautiously returned to take a seat at the end of the kitchen island.

“You know, you’re one of the best slayers now,” he said.

“I know.” She looked embarrassed and shrugged. “I don’t mean—”

“No, I get it. You are, and you’re a slayer, so you know that. I just think, you know, maybe that’s what you should concentrate on now. However, you know, you got here, whatever maybe kinda evil things you did in the past that you really, really wish you hadn’t done, uh, you’re here now, and you’re a great slayer, and you’re here for her.”

Vi looked at him a while, then leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. “That was good, Andrew. Thanks.”

He blushed again and stared at the salt shaker while she giggled and took her plate to the sink.

Daniel groaned. “You gotta feel sorry for the kid.”

“What? You and your civil partner gonna show him the ropes?”

“If by that you mean we might show him the more accepting parts of Phoenix to help him establish a social group of his peers, yes.”

“Oh yeah. That was exactly what I meant.”

Daniel watched the video cut out and then resume with the tell-tale shaking frame while a dozen slayers got plates of eggs and bacon from the cook and walked out to the dining room. Willow, Kennedy, and Xander were sitting at the island, unclaimed stools around them, while Caridad leaned against the counter, waiting on her plate.

“What’s with the boy?”

“Xander?” Daniel looked at his sad expression. “He misses Anya.”

“Miss the girl myself. Always had something interesting to say, when she wasn’t all about Xander givin’ her the big happy every five minutes.”

“He gave her the happy every five minutes, or she talked about it every five minutes?”

“Pretty much both, from what I could tell.”

“Huh.”

Giles came into the room, scowled slightly at Andrew behind the camera, then made his way over to the four coffee pots Daniel had gotten set up on the counter.

“Which are not the decaf?” he asked, turning to Willow, who pointed.

“Thanks,” he muttered, pouring a mug and then coming to sit at the island.

“Buffy and Faith worked out our battle plan yet?” Kennedy asked.

“They’re hashing out the details,” Giles said mildly.

Ignoring the line of girls, the cook took the next plate, filled with eggs, sausage, grilled mushrooms, tomatoes, and beans, and set it in front of the watcher.

“Bless you, Amelia,” he said, granting her a smile that made the sixty-year-old woman smile like a teenager.

“Always the bloody charmer,” Spike muttered.

“However, and I want to stress this,” Giles said with a look at Kennedy. “This is not a battle. Reconnaissance only. Something that kills this swiftly in broad daylight is nothing to take on in ignorance. The only clue we have is that it fled when Rona approached, so there is a possibility it can only attack one person at a time.”

“I still say we could take it on,” the young slayer said.

“Now of all times, Kennedy, shows of bravado are not welcome here.”

“He’s right,” Caridad said, coming forward and dodging around a slayer with a plate. “You’re going to get us all killed with that mouth. Do you even understand the word ‘hubris’?”

“Hey,” Willow spoke up, protecting her girlfriend a little half-heartedly.

“I know that cowering in the corner isn’t going to protect us,” Kennedy said, standing up and looking ready to throw a punch.

“Really?” Buffy asked as she and Faith came into the kitchen. “That’s more than the rest of us know.”

Daniel felt the vampire near him snap to attention at just the image of his girl.

“Yeah, brat,” Faith said, her whole body daring the younger slayer to object. “You got some inside line you wanna share with the rest of us?”

“It’s a demon. Slayers kill demons.”

“Rhamnousia isn’t a demon,” Buffy said. “And if this thing is working for her and we treat it like just another monster with horns, more of us are going to die. The last time I went up against a god, the hell bitch almost destroyed everything, as in _everything_.”

She turned, addressing everyone in the kitchen as they stared at her, most of them looking dazed.

“We need information more than anything,” the Slayer said. “We need any rumor, any scrap we can get. If you see this demon or anything remotely demon-like, we all need to hear about it.”

“Like we got to hear about what Prometheus told you?” Kennedy demanded, earning a massive Faith eye-roll.

“Telling all of you about that won’t help us,” Buffy said. “You’re going to have to trust me.”

“Well, breaking news, but I don’t trust you.”

“Kennedy,” Willow protested.

“I don’t! The last time you talked about how we were all going to die, a lot of us did! And yeah, we closed the hellmouth, but what good did that do? We’re back in the thick of it again.”

“Welcome to being a slayer,” Buffy said.

“Oh, God! Enough with the better-than-you crap!”

“Andrew?” Xander suddenly demanded, staring at the camera. “What the hell?”

A deep growl cracked through the speakers, and suddenly the image on the camera went wild. Someone screamed, and the picture turned to snow.

Spike swiveled around. “You wanna fill me in on that?”

Daniel nodded, running a hand through his hair. It was a little long for him, but Michael liked it long.

“The slayers told me Andrew started glowing. His eyes went white, and he threw the camera right at Kennedy’s head. Knocked her out cold. And now she’s got a goose egg on her temple, and Andrew’s whimpering about being possessed.”

“Well, we knew she was making herself a target.”

“I don’t think we realized it was for a video camera.”

Spike drew out a cigarette and lit it, frowning.

“Greek gods,” he finally muttered. “Always getting pissy when people don’t kiss their asses.”

Suddenly, thin, tanned arms were wrapping around Spike from behind, and the vampire’s face just lit up like Christmas as his head leaned back, and he was kissing Buffy for a few minutes there.

Daniel couldn’t help making mental notes. The Buffy he’d known until now was a general, though she softened around Dawn and her friends. But this version was so soft she was almost oozing over the back of the sofa, and from what of her face he could see, she was completely enraptured by the kiss.

It was kind of hot, actually, in a way that made your heart all weepy. He suddenly wanted Michael there with a fierceness that hurt.

_Pop._

They all three turned to look at the sandy-haired (with a small shock of gray over his forehead), compact figure who stood there in some bewilderment, his toned body a nose thumbed at age, wearing his favorite pair of worn jeans and a red polo shirt.

“And just which one are you?” Spike growled in exasperation.

“Daniel?” the man asked.

“I’m so sorry, Michael!” He was up off the couch and taking his husband into his arms for a gentle embrace. “I just wanted you here. I didn’t mean to—are you all right?”

“Well,” Michael said in that cultured voice he loved so much. “I was in my office. I guess it’s a good thing I wasn’t driving.” He looked at the vampire on the couch. “I guess you’d be Spike.”

“What’s next? The bloody UC marching band?”

“Sorry,” Daniel said, feeling a little desperate. So much depended on Spike’s good will right now. “I just wanted him here, and he was here.”

“And I love you for it,” Michael whispered in his ear, before turning serious eyes toward the couple on the couch.

Oh boy. Buffy had pulled herself over the back of the sofa, providing a perfect distraction to the vampire, who was currently enjoying their closeness with little kisses along her neck and sort of doing this undulating thing against her body.

“Whoa,” Michael whispered.

Daniel agreed, and with a joint thought that was pure instinct they popped out.

 

“Slayer,” Spike breathed, inhaling her.

“You smell funny.”

“What?” He reared back, but her eyes just twinkled.

“Nice, I mean. Just…different.”

“That Daniel bloke. Did something to my cigarettes.”

She shrugged, then leaned back down for a kiss, whispering, “Now I can taste you better.”

It was strange, absolutely bloody strange, that the more familiar this got, the better it got. It wasn’t just that he could touch her with more confidence, or that her fingers knew just where to go to get his engine revving. It wasn’t just the sense of home when sliding inside her body and feeling how she welcomed him. It wasn’t just that he knew she’d let him slide down her perfect, tight body and lick her up, or that if he asked she’d take him in her mouth. It was that he was losing his fear, for all he reminded himself this couldn’t last. It was that the chilling desperation of each moment was fading into a strangely warming comfort.

“ _Trust is for old marrieds, Buffy_ ,” he’d told her once in a horrible memory. “ _Great love is wild and passionate and dangerous. It burns and consumes_.”

And she’d warned him, “ _Until there’s nothing left_.”

She was right, of course, but he hadn’t felt it until now. A hundred bloody years with Drusilla, and he’d never felt a shadow of what he was feeling now. Dru had led him to destruction, danced around him with promises and kitten eyes. He’d adored her, and she’d let him adore her, but he’d never known, not one time, the certainty that she truly loved him. Every encounter was another round of seduction, talking her down from madness or her bleeding dolls or whatever had caught her fancy. She had been his dark princess, and he’d worshipped her, but until now he hadn’t realized how pointless the whole thing had been. At her most ardent, she’d still been challenging him to be enough, which he never was.

“Harder,” Buffy whispered, a simple command of a lover who knew him, a simple request for her pleasure without shame or the demand for a balance sheet.

He increased the thrust of his hips with indulgence, knowing it was her pleasure. And he didn’t want to be anyone or anything else but what he was. Had he ever felt that way before in either life or unlife?

“I love you, Buffy Summers,” he said for the simplicity of it.

“Love you, Spike,” she said, and then there was just heat and love and coming like a rocket ship and more of that incredible comfort.

 

TO BE CONTINUED


End file.
